


The Ability Hound

by Pokemoon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Angst, Anyways..., Assassins & Hitmen, Cousin Incest, Dark, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Espers, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, haha i shouldn't have written that, mafia, with lame ass scientific explanations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4319709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokemoon/pseuds/Pokemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part about being a murderer is that I have to look people in the face and smile like I didn't just spend an hour washing blood out of my clothes until my hands were so pruned that they hurt. If I held any other occupation, I could just toss my clothes into the washing machine and be done with it instead of rubbing my hands red and raw.</p><p>The best part is that Luka will praise me when I come home and passionate fucking will ensue. Except for when I hate him because then that part sucks too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Just Wanted To Be Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really like writing or reading in 1st person, but it kills me to have to read the shit I write in 3rd person, so here I am. Writing in 1st person.
> 
> Enough complaining. As a heads up, this is a very sick story featuring copious amounts of sex between cousins and, occasionally copious amounts of coercion to get to the copious amounts of sex. The kidnapping referenced in the tags happened a long time ago, which I'll flashback to, but, after all, this is a crime filled world and little kids get kidnapped all the time, so our main characters will have a hand in that.
> 
> The summary rhymes :)

"Kyle.” A husky voice demands my attention, but I bite my lip harder and don’t respond. That’s not my name. I hate it. I hate him. “Kyle,” he repeats patiently. I hate that too – it’s easier to hate him when he’s mad.

 

Luka’s fingers crook inside me, massaging over _that spot_ , and a small whine escapes me.

 

It’s not fair. He’s played with my body for so long it’s not even mine anymore. He’s played with my mind for so long it’s not mine anymore either. We both know that this is just a temporary rebellion; I’ll be his doll again soon.

 

Pull yourself together, Kyle! I’ll get away next time!

 

Dammit! I’m calling myself by that accursed name!

 

My fingers dig into the black fabric of Luka’s shirt as his rummage inside my butt. “It feels good, right?” Damn him. He knows it does. Only a sick and twisted world like this one would make something so disgusting feel so good. “Answer me,” scolds Luka.

 

I bury my face into the olive tan skin of his neck, the scent of his cologne makes my head spin. “I- C-come…” You suck, Kyle. You deserve this. All he’s done is finger you and you’re already begging for release.

 

“Hm…” I can hear his smirk. “Give me a kiss.”

 

“No w-way…” I’m sure I say it as defiantly as possible, but all I hear is a breathless moan. I shake my head to reinforce my point.

 

Luka maneuvers me off his lap and onto the sheets. The open flaps of his button-up barely brush over my bare chest, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine. His eyes are locked onto mine. His lips hover over mine. “Give me a kiss,” he breathes.

 

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

 

His lips are soft and coaxing. Mine are shy and function as a chew toy in uncomfortable situations. But he still licks them like they’re something to be savored. A slick tongue nudges my lips apart and swirls around mine. His free hand combs through the messy auburn strands I unfortunately have to call my hair. The other begins to move in earnest.

 

Over my increasingly unrestrained moans, I can hear lube squelching as his fingers pump in and out of a loose, sloppy hole. My loose, sloppy hole. I hate it. I hate him. But tonight will end like every night before it.

 

I can’t stay quiet anymore. “Lu…Luka…!” I cry out, pulling back from the kiss. “I-” I want to come. I want to, but I don’t. He’ll win if I do, I’ll lose if I don’t. “Please! I’m sorry! C-come… Lu-ka~” Goddammit! What am I saying?

 

He kisses me again, silencing my pleas. It’s a short and dominating gesture of passion that leaves me breathless when he pulls away. “Come,” he commands, stern brown eyes softening in the heat of the moment.

 

With a shaky and desperate hand, I begin to jerk off my straining erection. It slides up and down smoothly, letting the glorious sensation climb even more. But, of course it’s a rough twist of Luka’s fingers that finally sends me over the edge. I can hear myself moaning like a whore as white stripes paint the space between us. It happens every time and I never get any quieter.

 

I hate it. I hate him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

School makes me feel normal even though I know I’m not. I’m a healthy teenage boy in my junior year of high school. I should be talking about girls and good porn on the way home from basketball practice instead of standing over a fresh corpse in the playground of an elementary school. I wipe my blade on the leg of my pants before sheathing it next to its sister.

 

“D-dad…?”

 

Oh yeah, there’s that guy too.

 

A twig like figure maybe a year or two younger than me rushes over and falls on his knees at the side of the body. I kick it over so he can take a good, long look at the person’s face. It’s hard to see because the moon is nowhere near as bright as poetry makes it sound, but the kid immediately scrabbles backwards as soon as he notices the blood staining the freshly fallen snow an ugly red.

 

“Is h-he… dead?”

 

“Is he your dad?”

 

The kid’s eyes dart between me and the corpse. He obviously thinks that the body is both his dad and dead. What am I? A Geiko commercial? I shake my head tiredly. “That’s not your dad. It’s a woman. And, by the way,” frightened eyes tentatively meet mine, “you didn’t see anything, right?”

 

He nods his head immediately, breaths coming out in short, white puffs. I almost feel bad for scarring such an innocent looking boy, but there will be a shit ton more scarred children tomorrow morning, so if I feel bad for him then I’d have to feel bad for them too, and I can’t bring myself to care that much.

 

I’d seen a lot more than just a dead body by the time I was seven, and I turned out sane enough to function. I’m sure they’ll be okay. What’s so great about being completely sane anyways? Only the people who are on the cusp of insanity can make it out on top. It was like that even back home, I think, but I only lived there for the first five years of my life, so it’s hard to remember.

 

I shoot the kid one last glance before heading home. I’m too tired to give him a threatening glare, but he still flinches under my gaze. It should be okay to not kill him. On my way out the gate, a big man pushes past me. “Matt!” he shouts, “Oh, thank god!” I can’t tear my eyes away as Matt is embraced by who I would assume is his father. My dad never held me like that. Then again, I've never met my dad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I make it a point to hold grudges against Luka for as long as possible, though with varying degrees of success, which determines the nature of our relationship, so when he calls out, “welcome home,” as I step through the threshold of our home, I don’t respond.

 

The short walk between the front door and our room becomes infinitely more treacherous because Luka lies in wait for me on a plush armchair at the end of the small entrance hall like a vulture patiently waiting for its next meal. He casually fiddles with a pencil while solving a puzzle, either Sudoku or a crossword.

 

I try my best to walk straight past him, so I won’t have to be anywhere near him until he comes to bed, but he says, “Kyle,” in such a tender voice, that I make the mistake of stopping.

 

“What?” I ask coldly.

 

“Help me out, will you?” It’s only too easy to imagine the softness in his handsome features, and the small crinkle around his eyes as his mouth lilts in a gentle smile. A smile reserved for when it’s just the two of us that makes my heart flutter and my breath stutter.

 

How can I say no to that? A little over a decade ago, when I was just a child prostitute stuck in a foreign country, we bonded, so to speak, over our mutual love for Sudoku in this very same apartment. These rare moments of clarity when I’m not blinded by an all-consuming hatred or an almost religious devotion are when I can see how twisted our relationship is.

 

He loves me; I love him. I hate him; he loves me. He hates me; I love him. I hate him; he hates me. He loves me; I love him.

 

Our relationship cycles through its phases like a girl on her period with just as many heated arguments and bursts of passion. I can’t imagine staying both alive and out of jail long enough to reach menopause.

 

I can feel the intensity of his gaze burning holes through my back, razing my guard to a crisp, until my heart and the quickness of its rhythm are exposed for him to see. I feel too vulnerable. “Go fuck yourself.” I seethe without turning around, and then storm away, slamming the door to our room shut behind me.

 

I lock it just for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll always appreciate any questions, suggestions, or criticism, so feel free to comment below. In fact, I appreciate any comment, so don't hesitate to share your thoughts with me. I've never written smut before, but I hope I did an okay job :)
> 
> I know I said at the top that my 3rd person sucks, but it's hard for me to objectively judge my writing, so for all I know, I write 1st person worse than 3rd person.
> 
> Btw, I usually write longer chapters, but it just depends.


	2. The New Employee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a scene to the end of chapter one, like, just now, so go check that out. Or not. Whatever float your boat. I like it, though.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed is not how I would describe myself at seven in the morning. I laze about in Luka’s office with my legs thrown over the side of an armchair, amusing myself on my phone. Sometimes I like to read the news. Headlines such as, ‘ _Missing Person Found Dead And Decaying!_ ’ are always a sign of a job well done.

 

I like this room for a variety of reasons, mainly because it’s more comfy than my own, dreary cubicle (not to say Luka’s office is cozy) which I know sounds strange because not only am I in high school, but I also work for the mafia, and what kind of mafia has cubicles? Well, my friend, I’m sure the Valenti Family had turf wars and ran speakeasies at one point in its glorious and long-lived history, but that was before government workers got worthwhile benefits and scientists invented nuclear weapons.

 

In order to stay afloat during rapidly changing times, my father, Ignazio Valenti, started a legitimate, shipping company to mask the family’s illegitimate business about thirty years ago. Right now I’m in charge of part of the finance sector, but I occasionally do other stuff too. Needless to say, the company quickly took off.

 

On mornings like this, when some native Greenlander – probably Erik - got a bout of homesickness and access to the air conditioner, I’m reminded of the frosty January morning I first met Joseph - excuse me - Jonathan Kirk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m sitting in a black leather loveseat, upright for once because it’s brand new and squeaks when

I move, waiting for a headline about the school teacher’s body, which I left in the playground last night. I think elementary school should be starting around now, but I wouldn’t know since I’ve never been. On the other hand, it means the kid last night and his dad didn’t report anything.

 

Someone raps on the door thrice in quick succession, startling me out of my thoughts, and it quietly swings open. I look over my shoulder, wondering who it is because Luka would never knock on the door to his own office. An enormous man walks into the room, ducking just slightly to avoid bumping his head. “Are you Kyle?” he asks in an amiable tone.

 

“Yeah,” I reply, getting up to meet him in a handshake. Who is he?

 

The man breaks into a wide, dimpled grin, which I respond to with my own tense smile. Why does he look so familiar? “It’s an honor to work with you! I’m Jonathan Kirk, but my friends call me Johnny.” I relax, assuming he’s the new employee Luka told me about, until he leans in a little closer. “You’re almost a legend in our field of work. I’d love to hear some of your stories.”

 

What? Killing people in cruel and occasionally unusual ways? Okay, I’ve built up something of a reputation in the last half decade. Finance? What the fucking fuck is he talking about!?

 

“You know,” Kirk starts while sitting down, “I have a son about your age. He’s a freshman in high school.”

 

My mind flashes back to the previous night when a man pushed past me to embrace his traumatized son. “I’m a junior,” I respond, with a sudden urge to be anywhere but here. “And I have to go.” I look pointedly at the open door.

 

“Oh come on,” Kirk pshaws, following my line of sight, but otherwise does nothing else. He places a large, calloused hand on my shoulder, urging me to sit down. “Surely it can wait.”

 

I give him another strained smile, “It really can’t,” before pulling away. I try to morph my smile into something more welcoming, but only end up twisting it beyond repair. Dropping all attempts at pleasantry, I walk him to the door and bid him good day.

 

Shit. His son saw me. _He_ saw me.

 

Wait, it might not be him. I mean, the kid yesterday thought the school teacher was his dad, and there’s no way this goliath of a man could ever be mistaken for her. But the man who I passed was abnormally tall too.

 

I can’t tell Luka.

 

I sit back down and pull my legs onto the chair, ignoring the farting sound it makes and chew on my lower lip while thinking of a way to fix this, and, when that starts to hurt, I begin to wear away at my nails.

 

Luka walks at some point with a thick manila folder in his hand. He frowns at my posture, but chooses not to comment on my shoes getting a brand-spanking-new leather seat dirty. “So?” he asks, “What’d you think of the new employee?”

 

I hum and shrug my shoulders, pretending to be indifferent despite the anxiety constricting my breath. Can Luka hear my heart pounding in its cage? This is bad.

 

He stops behind my chair, and I hesitantly tilt my head backwards, afraid of what the questionable grin on his face means. “What?” I ask, praying desperately that all he wants is a little office sex and nothing like, say, beat me black and blue for letting a witness live. Damn, I shouldn’t have been so short with him last night.

 

Luka waves the manila folder, its many pages flapping around. “Joseph Kirkland. He’s a cop. And pretty good, too.”

 

He places the folder on his already cluttered desk. Usually I would get up and file it away for him because I can’t stand messes, but holy shit. Satanic shit. Is this what it feels like to single-handedly ruin thirty years of work? I don’t think Luka knows yet, but, “I’d rather have office sex…” I mutter. This is really bad.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Luka grins knowingly at me, but just ruffles my hair and files the folder away. I lean into the touch to try and curry some favor before he finds out the truth.

 

“So… He’s a cop? Cool.” I try and play it off even though I feel like the world is fixing to come crashing down on me. A cop basically saw me murder the only witness to a multi-million dollar money laundering scandal, and now he knows I work for Valenti International Shipping Co, the front to the largest organized crime family in Chicago.

 

Although it’s not like he saw my face or do the deed, only his son. Maybe I can still fix this.

 

I rise from my seat, closing my eyes in exasperation at the loud noises it makes, and step around Luka’s desk. He looks up from his work and leans back so I can sit on his lap. He grabs my waist and pulls me in closer with a pleased expression. I lean forward, bracing my arms against the back of the chair on either side of his head, and kiss him, gasping in surprise when he roughly squeezes my ass around the fabric of my jeans.

 

I sigh against his mouth, enjoying the lingering taste of coffee and smoke. “Mm…” I tell him in a sultry voice, “Your new cologne smells good.” Just in case the situation with Kirk blows up in my face, it’ll be better if I’m on Luka’s good side

 

Luka’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Thanks.” I try to kiss him again, but he pulls away, only granting me a quick peck because I pout a little. “What’s up with you this morning?” he asks, suspicious of my sudden change in attitude, but still in good humor.

 

“Nothing,” I lie. “You’re just sexy as hell.” That’s not a lie. After some deliberation, I add, “thinking about you makes me feel empty right here.” I grind my ass against his crotch, wishing that my words were a lie.

 

“Hm…” Luka smirks. I can tell he doesn’t believe me, yet he doesn’t seem to mind, instead, he slips a cool hand down the back of my jeans. “Maybe I can help you with that…”

 

I shiver at the touch of his skin against mine. His hand grabs at the flesh of my ass, squeezing one cheek in his palm like Play-Doh, leeching its warmth until they’re both the same temperature. His other hand rubs circles into the small of my back soothingly before sliding up my spine and finally cupping the back of my neck and pulling me in for another kiss.

 

My breath hitches when he slides a finger inside me. Another one prods at my entrance and slowly works itself inside. I try not to think about how easily they go in despite being completely dry, but succeed in a disappointingly short amount of time when they begin to push in and out, rubbing the inner walls of my ass until I can’t remember how to breathe.

 

“Just fuck me already,” I demand breathlessly, rocking back on his hand eagerly. “Luka…!” My fingers fumble with the zipper of his pants, clumsily pulling it down and undoing the button. I thumb the head of his cock and smear precome along the shaft before unbuttoning my own pants. I try my best to squirm out of them, growing increasingly more frantic to be filled and claimed, but Luka stops me by grabbing our dicks and rubbing them together in his palm.

 

I jolt forward, moaning loudly.

 

“Shh…” He murmurs in between nips and kisses to my neck. His fingers slow, and I cry out in objection.

 

“No!” I plead with him, rolling my hips to try and get him to speed up. “Luka, please… please!” I sob in frustration when they pull out completely.

 

An unbearable need builds up inside my chest. I reach behind with my own hand, but Luka roughly yanks it away. He tsks at me, dropping it at my side and holds his fingers out for me to suck. I obediently open my mouth and he shoves three fingers in. I suck at them and lick between each one with my tongue, getting them slick with saliva. All the while his other hand gently plays with our members, lightly stroking and rubbing them.

 

He pulls his hand out and grins at me like we’re not jerking it on a brand new, leather armchair in an unlocked room he works in all day. “I’ll fuck you tonight,” he promises. My gut clenches at the possessiveness in his voice.

 

Three, slippery fingers work their way into my hole, immediately seeking out the spot that sends sparks of heat throughout my veins, rubbing circles around it just for the sake of driving me insane. They pump in and out, pressing hard against my prostate with every passing until I’m crying out with abandon. I fuck back against his fingers, but also forward against his thick, hot cock and calloused hand, which are slick with both our precome.

 

Anybody in the hallway outside can hear my moans, but I don’t care. Luka is quiet as usual, watching my face screwed up in ecstasy with his stoic, dark brown eyes. The only indication that he’s affected are his blown pupils and the slight part between his lips.

 

I realize that Luka stopped moving the hand in my ass at some point, and instead let me bounce needily on his fingers, desperately trying to get off. My cheeks flush in shame at the knowledge, but I can’t bring myself to stop.

 

I try to focus on the feeling of being rubbed against his hot and hard cock in an attempt to salvage some dignity, but the pleasure of having my prostate struck, the wondrous, sensual heat, chases any rational thoughts out of my mind. Warmth tingles throughout my body; I know that I won’t last much longer. “I’m- I’m going to…” I try to gasp out a warning before spilling all over Luka’s hand.

 

He continues to stroke our cocks together and his fingers rub lightly against the inner walls of my ass until I’m whimpering and fidgeting from overstimulation and he finally comes.

 

Our heavy pants fill the quiet office as we sit like that for a minute or two, enjoying each other’s presence. We kiss some more, slow and sweet, but I finally climb off his lap and redo my pants. I stare at Luka and he stares at me, a soft smile on his face.

 

He looks me up and down; I can easily imagine what he sees: messy, auburn hair, flushed cheeks, and a wrinkled shirt with a fresh come stain.

 

I dread leaving this room and having to face the horrors of reality – a cop on my doorstep – but for now, I just enjoy being the sole focus of his attention, the most important thing in his world.

 

And that’s how the last morning of my winter break went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday. I think I’m going to stay home tomorrow. Ever since Mr. Kirk started working here, every Friday became a Take-Your-Kid-To-Work Day, and that’s how I became intimately acquainted with Matthew Kirk, the boy who witnessed me murder an elementary school teacher, who happened to look at the wrong computer when bringing her husband lunch.

 

It wasn’t her fault, I know. Nobody should be stupid enough to money launder in plain view, but I didn’t have a choice because Gabe told me to do it, and I hear the pay was good.

 

I’ve moved on though, since the only loose end from that job is Matt and Mr. Kirk.

 

I hear that most school districts have five day weeks, but mine has a four day week. I have no qualms against longer school days and school years – call me what you like, but I enjoy school - but I could’ve done without getting to know an employee so well, especially when he’s out for my blood.

 

Not that you can tell since he’s so nice to me, almost like a father, but I wouldn’t expect any less from a seasoned cop. I’ve worked with Mr. Kirk for about seven months now, yet I’ve learned more about him than I have about Luka after living with him for seven years. And that’s saying something because I know _a lot_ about Luka.

 

It’s obvious that I’m getting too close with him, but when he asks me, “Kyle, do you want to go see the game tomorrow?” I can’t help but agree.

 

Mr. Kirk is nice to me even though it’s just an act. It’s fun to be around someone my own age even though I sometimes catch Matt giving me worried glances. It’s refreshing to do something other than go to school, go to work, and get fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a female virgin. The struggle is real.
> 
> More plot next chapter!
> 
> Or, if you're here for the sex: more plot next chapter...
> 
> Oh yeah! Go check out my other work "Management of Miscreants" because I like it a lot! The summary is terrible, so just check out the tags or actually read it because I didn't know what to tag it with since I'm not sure if I want to take it down a dark or fluffy road.


	3. Game Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place the day the last chapter left off. The pacing is awkward, I know, but I'm trying to slow it down. Not the action, I'm just trying to use more words to describe each scene, if that makes sense.
> 
> Whoever in the world decided to give the mafia tag a lowercase 'm' has officially made it to the hit list.

“What are you doing out so late?”

 

Matt yelps in surprise and jumps around to face me with a guilty expression like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. Chicago’s colorful nightlife reflects off of his pale skin and ash blond hair. Like me, he clearly doesn’t spend very much time under the sun.

 

Unlike me, I wouldn’t call him attractive. Maybe cute in a boyish way, considering his innocent face and caring disposition, but his gangly, light pole like frame draws the line there. In a few years, after he’s filled out and tanned a little, I’m sure he’ll be popular, but, for now, he’s just an awkward teenager.

 

His eyes dart around the outside of fifty floor skyscraper I live and work in. “I was… waiting for my dad?”

 

His voice lilts up nervously, making his statement sound like a question. Even after seven months - I can’t say for sure whether Matt has told his father he saw me on that fateful night – I don’t think so - but he at least knows it was me. I can’t think of any other reason for him to act so skittish when it's just the two of us.

 

But he apparently can. “Anyways, w-would it kill you to ask your friends to lay off a bit?” His mouth is set in fierce disapproval, but he stammers and his eyes dart away in deference.

 

At least he didn’t ask why I’m out so late.

 

The new school year has just started; he’s a sophomore this year. It’s his own fault he took calc and stats last year so he's out of math classes this year. That’s what happens when you’re different – people bully you.

 

I don’t reply because anything I say would only hurt his feelings. “What friends?” I scoff instead, surprising myself with my honesty because I honestly wouldn’t call them my friends. They’re popular, so I hang out with them to seem normal; I’m rich, so they hang out with me to look cool. It’s called mutualism.

 

You can bet your knickerbockers I paid attention in AP Bio.

 

Minus the mafia and police, this could be the plot to a rom-com. He’s the girl-next-door, and I’m the bad boy. I talk to him when we’re alone, but ignore his existence at school. Next thing I know, a sudden change in circumstance will have us spending a lot of time together, we’ll fall in love, and kiss under the setting sun.

 

“So,” I sigh, ignoring my strange thoughts and Matt’s stunned expression. I force away a blush, thinking that I accidentally said something about kissing and sunsets, before realizing that he's simply shocked because of my callous admission. “What did you say you were here for again?”

 

“I’m waiting for my dad. He told me to pick him up here.” Matt sniffs disdainfully since he's an earnest and straightforward kid who doesn't understand why any decent human being would go through the trouble of forming fake friendships.

 

“Really? From the side entrance?" I ask, a little miffed at his tone, but not terribly insulted. He can't help being too innocent to understand that I'm not, at best, a decent human being even after witnessing me murder a poor school teacher. "He left a while ago, though.”

 

“A-are you sure?” Matt asks, his attitude suddenly nowhere to be seen. He takes half a step backwards like he just made a huge mistake and I'm going to slit his throat in reparation.

 

If I didn’t already know Mr. Kirk is investigating me and the Valenti family, then I would now. But, since I’m a nice person, I feign ignorance. “He probably left something behind. Come on up.”

 

Matt heaves an audible sigh of relief; he's too innocent. Of course I would never slit his throat in the middle of the street, but an empty building owned by my family, the mafia, would be the perfect place to discreetly take care of business.

 

Instead of going in from where we are, I lead Matt around the building to the front entrance. The automatic doors slide open, though they aren’t revealing anything that can’t be seen from the outside through the massive glass panels lining every side.

 

The front lobby leans towards an utilitarian aesthetic, but so does every other floor. Despite coming here every week, Matt still seems impressed by the high ceiling and contemporary design. Only the emergency lights are on because everybody has already gone home and there’s no need to consume so much electricity, but it’s still easy to see clusters of armchairs forming small waiting areas around the room, the various potted plants placed along the perimeter, and the circular front desk smack dab in the middle of the floor. Less easy to spot, but simple if you know where to look, are cameras near the ceiling observing everything that goes on in here.

 

I press the button for the elevator. If the air between Matt and me isn’t awkward enough already while we’re waiting for the elevator to arrive, the thirty-eight floor trip up to my cubicle is going to be even worse. Luckily, the elevator dings not even a minute after I press the button, and reveals a pleasant surprise inside.

 

If the look on Mr. Kirk’s face is anything to judge by, pleasant is not the word he would use to describe this situation.

 

He quickly recomposes himself and laughs sheepishly while stepping out. “Kyle! What a coincidence! I was at the subway station when I realized I left my wallet somewhere, so I came back to look for it,” he explains, reaching into his pocket to show it to me.

 

I laugh too, and pat Matt affectionately on his back. He flinches, but we all pretend nothing of the sort happened. “I'm glad you found it, Mr. Kirk! Matt here came to pick you up! He’s such a good kid, huh?”

 

“He is, he is… Tonight’s family game night, so he was probably getting impatient waiting for me to come home.” Mr. Kirk nods, and slings an arm around Matt’s shoulder, steering him towards the exit with a little too much force. “C’mon, son, let’s not keep your mother waiting too long.” He gives me one last nod, finally with enough composure to assume the fatherly tone he usually uses with me. “Good night, Kyle. Don't forget about tomorrow."

 

The ball game. "I won't. Good night," I echo, waving him off before calling for the elevator again. The ride up to the fiftieth floor, where I live, is quiet. Only the sound of the cables sliding up and down, and the flickering of the light can be heard. It’s not the awkward ride I was expecting earlier, but I can’t say I prefer it.

 

Matt and Mr. Kirk are probably halfway down the block by the time the doors slide open again. It’s just me, Luka, and the cleaning staff in this skyscraper. I wonder if tonight is really family game night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Welcome home,” Luka calls out as I step through the threshold of the penthouse we share. It used to be his family’s home. He grew up here with his mom, dad, and brother, but now it’s just the two of us. Sometimes Gabe, his brother, drops by. He wouldn’t if I had any say in the matter, though.

 

I slip my shoes off at the entrance, making a hum of acknowledgment in response to Luka's greeting. On a whim, I make my way over to the coat closet and rake through it with my eyes, searching. The contents are unsatisfactory, and I'm struck by a sudden sense of urgency. I pass by Luka, who's cooking in the kitchen, and head to the other side of our apartment.

 

On either side of a small alcove are two, inconspicuous doors. They're made of dark brown wood, like every other door in the house, have two rectangles inlaid into them, like every other door in the house, and are opened by a black door handle, like doors in general are prone to having. The left door leads to Luka's old bedroom; the right, Gabe's. Now they're just storage rooms. I can't remember the last time someone opened either one of them.

 

Since I'd really rather not have any more to do with Gabe than necessary, I open Luka's room first. The first thing I notice is how dirty it is. It looks as if a teenage Luka walked out one morning and never came back: a pile of dirty clothes sits in the middle of the floor, the bed is unmade, the closet door is wide open, various toiletries clutter the sink area, and everything is topped with a healthy serving of dust.

 

I cautiously step into the closet and flick the light switch, but nothing happens.

 

Oh well.

 

The closet somehow manages to be messy even though half of its contents are laying at the foot of the bed just outside. Almost everything in it is black - not surprising since Luka's favorite color is black - with the occasional colored T-shirt or blue jean. I see a black, denim vest hanging apart from the other punk-styled clothing, and smile to myself at the flood of fond memories associated with it. I reach out and touch the cotton hood on the back; it's as soft as I remember. Leaning in, I press my nose to the fabric and sniff, almost laughing at the fading, nostalgic smell of Luka's old cologne. If I close my eyes, I can pretend that I'm seven again and Luka's giving me a piggyback ride around the Hangout.

 

Pushing the worn vest aside, I spot a pale green box with bold lettering across the lid pushed into the corner of the closet.

 

Satisfied, I exit the dusty room and head into the kitchen, where Luka’s stirring something in a pot with another, larger pot on the burner behind it. The sleeves of his black, dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows and he's wearing a ridiculous, yellow apron over it. His coat and tie lay forgotten on the bar because he’s too lazy to hang them up. “At least put them on the back of the chair,” I scold, doing just that. I’m tempted to hang them up in his closet, but refrain for the sake of avoiding being teased.

 

What can I say? I like to be neat.

 

I’m guessing Luka’s making spaghetti because half a dozen uncapped spice bottles, an empty package of ground beef, and a mostly full box of pasta are sitting on the counter.

 

Considering the state of his old bedroom, I guess some things never change. I go around the kitchen, picking up his trash and disposing of it, and then put all the seasonings back where they belong – arranged alphabetically on the back left wall of the pantry. I take a moment to appreciate the few, neat rows of red-capped bottles lining the wall before walking back out and closing the door behind me.

 

"Could you set the table?" asks Luka, looking up from the stove with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

 

I nod wordlessly and set myself to the task. First, I grab a few utensils and set them on the small, circular table. Then I grab a bottle of water for myself and a wine glass for Luka, the latter of which clatters against the table's glass surface, before placing two plates on the counter next to Luka and bringing a shaker of parmesan cheese to the table next to a bottle of red wine that's a constant fixture on the table. What kind is beyond me, but I'm sure it's on the cheap side, not like the stuff Gabe drinks.

 

I wait patiently in my seat as Luka evenly divides the pasta between our two plates and ladles tomato sauce on top, putting a significantly larger amount on one plate because he knows I like the sauce. He places my plate in front of me and pours himself a generous glass of wine while sitting down.

 

I immediately dig in, ravenous from my tiring day, but Luka takes a sip of his wine before pausing to remove his apron. He leans back in his chair, slowly swirling the dark, red liquid in his glass, and watches me instead of beginning to eat.

 

He's weird like that. I can't fathom what part of me shoveling food down my throat is so fascinating, but sometimes he stares at me while I'm eating. He only does it when he cooks - we take turns - even though we both know that his cooking is good. Like I said: weird.

 

You know the saying, "Don't knock it until you've tried it?" Well, it quickly becomes my turn to stare. Luka only starts eating when I'm mostly done with my plate, and, because he eats at the pace of a powerwalking snail, I end up watching him while he slowly and steadily makes his way through his dinner.

 

He eats with a certain grace despite not using any of the fancy table manners that were probably instilled in him as a young child. I know his mother certainly went through hell to try and instill them in me. Everything about him is graceful, but deadly, like a… panther? God, I sound stupid. But I don't have anything better to do. It'll be the dawn of the next Ice Age by the time he finishes eating.

 

I just meant that he's smooth and confident and always in control with a bit of a darker edge, but also easygoing and kind and intelligent and hot and nothing like me even though we're cousins. Have I mentioned that? At least there's no risk of making two-headed babies.

 

I suppose I do love him. After all, I owe everything good in my life to him and he treats me well most of the time.

 

He definitely loves me. It's a little hard to tell during sex because we're complete opposites in that regard - I'm too vocal whereas he's stoic and sexy - but when we go slowly, he'll flip me onto my back and stare into my eyes with a hungry gaze like he sometimes does during dinner.

 

He'll throw one of my legs over his shoulder and pepper it with kisses as he begins to pump in and out, going deeper with every thrust. I know that my mouth would fall open and I'd moan obscenely, fisting the sheets so hard my knuckles turn white and squeezing my eyes shut.

 

But then he stops, making me push my hips against his in protest, but he tells me to open my eyes. I might tentatively open one, or I might not.

 

Regardless, he'll start again at an excruciatingly slow pace, forcing me to feel every millimeter of his hot rod of man-flesh buried in my ass and whisper, hot breath ghosting along the soft flesh of my thigh, that he loves the color of my eyes, that they're beautiful, and so is everything else about me. If I had one eye open, I would squeeze it shut again and bury my face in the pillow to hide my embarrassment.

 

With a breathy exhale, he'll start to move faster, and I would cry out again, thankful that the pillow muffles my sounds. As if he can read my mind, Luka will lean down and tell me that I'm so cute when I try to be quiet, but he likes it best when I scream his name. I hate being called beautiful or cute because it's so feminine, and I'm a man goddammit! Yet when it comes from him, I can't help but think that it's not so bad, after all.

 

In a low, possessive growl, he'll whisper a mix of filth and reverent comments in my ear, going faster and rougher and-

 

Broccoli broccoli broccoli carrot - I slam a hand over the growing bulge in my pants, banging it against the table in the process.

 

Luka laugh rings in my ears as he rises, picking up his empty plate and stacking it on top of mine before heading to the sink. "What was that for?"

 

"N-nothing," I reply stiffly. "Is it still September?"

 

"Why wouldn't it be?" He rinses our plates off, then glances at me.

 

I want to tell him that he eats so slowly it could be October by now, but I see the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement at the awkward placement of my right hand, and refrain from making any such comment.

 

"Do you have an itch?" He teases.

 

"Yes!" I answer immediately with too much enthusiasm. "In fact, I'm scratching it right now!" I move my hand in small, back and forth motions like I'm relieving an itch while keeping the bulge in my pants pressed down firmly. The motion feels too much like I'm relieving an entirely different kind of itch, and I jerk away, causing a tent to pop up in the fabric of my jeans.

 

Luka laughs again, and I glare at him in response. "What?" I ask defensively, angling my body away in a futile effort to hide my erection.

 

"Do you need some help with that?" Luka leans over me, placing one hand on the back of my chair and caging me between him and the table. He uses his other hand to knead the area around my crotch in slow circles, using enough strength to send delicious shivers of heat through my body, but not enough for me to cream my pants.

 

I moan appreciatively, but jump away and nearly fall out of the chair when Luka tries to kiss me.

 

The once small tent in my jeans now strains painfully against its confines, but I stand adamantly against Luka using my full height, although he still towers above me. I'm not short, I swear. It's his entire family that's tall, except for his mom. He's tall, his dad is taller, Gabe is tallest.

 

Luka looks a little put off by my reaction, but he looks more concerned. "What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing." I like kissing: it's intimate and feels nice. There are slow and sweet kisses, and rough, messy ones. I like both of them and everything in between, but if we kiss, then I'll like it, and if I like it then it'll lead to sex and I don't want sex tonight. "I just don't feel like it."

 

"Then what do you feel like?" Luka asks, clearly relieved nothing's wrong. (At least, nothing more wrong than me agreeing to watch a baseball game with a cop whose son saw me commit a murder, who happens to attend the same school as me and was in my statistics class last year, but Luka doesn't need to know that.)

 

I open my mouth, ready to tell him exactly what I feel like doing, but realize, upon further reflection, that it's quite stupid. I mumble something anyways.

 

"What?"

 

"A…" I storm away into Luka's boyhood room, and he's follows behind me, sighing like he's indulging another of my whims, but this isn't a whim! I pull the box out of his closet and thrust it at him.

 

He squints at the bold lettering, trying to read it in the dark room. "Sorry?"

 

"Yes!" I affirm, pretending to not be embarrassed. "I want to play Sorry!"

 

"Why can't we play Sudoku?" He asks, trying to compromise. He wants sex, I want a game. Why not play a sexy game?

 

I shake my head petulantly. "I want to play a board game!" I know it's unfair to him because he hates games of luck, like Sorry, but I want to play it and I know he'll go along with me if I want him to.

 

Luka sighs, groans, and glares, but gives in without further protest.

 

Spoiled isn't a bad word to describe me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sorry, but I'm not sorry."

 

"Goddammit!" I curse, slamming my palm against the coffee table, rattling the board and the pieces on top. "This isn't physically possible!" I gesture to where all four of my red markers are stuck at home in contrast to Luka's four, victorious, green markers.

 

We've played five rounds and I haven't won once. At least I did okay at first, but this is just ridiculous.

 

Luka grins. "Strip."

 

The wonders of Strip Sorry.

 

My socks were the first to go, then my belt, followed by my shirt, next my pants, and now my boxers. I step out of them with dignity and stand in our living room bare as the day I was born, resolutely staring into Luka's eyes to convince him that I'm not embarrassed. At all.

 

"Another round?" asks Luka with a shit-eating grin while lounging on the sofa in an annoying way.

 

I throw my boxers at him. "I don't have any clothes left!"

 

"You have your watch," he points out, moving the plaid shorts away from his face.

 

I look at my wrist, realizing he's right. I quickly peel it off and let it drop to the ground before practically throwing myself over the coffee table at Luka with a shout.  "Give me my boxers back!" The Sorry board is knocked to the left and the pieces scatter all over the table, but I ignore them.

 

Luka moves them out of my reach, but I follow, clambering all over him to grab at them. He's laughing. I'm laughing. Is the game night at Mr. Kirk's house this fun too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! It means a lot to me!


	4. The Explosive Beginning to a Long and Painful End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA… Hahaha… ha… I'm a terrible author. I'm four chapters in and forgot to introduce an entire mechanic of this universe… So basically, this is an alternate universe where some people are born with a chromosomal mutation which gives them an ability. Kind of like the X-gene, but not, because there's already something called an X-chromosome. The "science" behind it plays a larger role in my other work with the really long title, so don't worry about it. All you need to know is that some people have mutations and Kyle is one of them. What is his ability? Read and find out!
> 
> Without further ado, here is the next chapter!

I hate nice people, and that's why I hang out with assholes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the early hours of Friday morning, my fellow accountants - though they get paid for their efforts, and I don't - begin filing in for another boring workday. I fumble through the papers on Luka's desk one more time, just for good measure, but can't find anything missing. 20 minutes of the security footage in Luka's office was looped around the time Mr. Kirk was supposedly searching for his wallet. I guess it's time to change the security detail.

 

The papers are in no particular order, but even if they were, even with my memory, there's no way I can tell if someone filched a paper or two, much less which ones. I slam my fist onto the desk in frustration.

 

I can't figure out what Mr. Kirk is playing at. My goal is clear: prevent him from obtaining any solid evidence of criminal activity. I mean, I know I'm a criminal. He knows I'm a criminal. Most of Chicago suspects I'm a criminal. There's no point in trying to convince him otherwise. Yet I'm still failing.

 

But what is his goal? He's had over half a year to report me, yet nothing has happened yet.

 

Be calm, Kyle.

 

Why wouldn't he report me if he has eyewitness testimony?

 

…

 

Because he doesn't. It was dark. I was wearing a hood. Matthew was traumatized. The evidence is weak; therefore, the case is weak. Many powerful lawyers work under the Valenti Family. He's probably biding his time, waiting until he secures decisive evidence before going to court. He only has one chance to… do what?

 

What is Mr. Kirk's goal?

 

To shut down the Valenti Family, right?

 

Or…

 

I almost trip over myself in a rush to get to the file cabinet. K… Kirk… Joseph… Found it. I pull out his thick, manila file, and flip to the very first page.

 

Homicide detective.

 

Mr. Kirk's goal isn't to shut down the Valenti Family. His goal is to arrest me and then ship me off to a life sentence in a maximum security prison where I can never see the light of day again.

 

Now that's out of the way, what does he need to prove beyond reasonable doubt that I'm guilty as fuck?

 

At that moment, Matt arrives, knocking lightly on the door before entering. I hastily put Mr. Kirk's folder back where it belongs.

 

"Matt." I smile friendly like. "Where's your dad?"

 

Most students on most Fridays at my school hang around the city with their friends, but not me, and not Matt either. I spend Fridays working as an unpaid accountant. I'd call the labor union, but I can't imagine them welcoming me with open arms.

 

I have to confess: I killed their chairman a while back.

 

Although I'm not paid directly for my work, I'm compensated, so to speak, with room and board. Honestly though, moonlighting as a murderer is how I actually earn my keep. Accountants are a dime a dozen, but pet assassins are hard to find. Usually, when important people want to kill each other, they hire a freelancer for a hefty sum of money, but the Family uses me free of charge. Or more like, I conveniently happened to know how to swing a blade around and the job of Family assassin was mine, no application necessary. I guess that just goes to show I'm disposable.

 

And to think we're of flesh and blood.

 

But I digress. Matt, being the daddy's boy he is, spends Fridays at the office. His backpack is slung over his shoulder, textbook in his arm.

 

"He's uh…" Matt glances over his shoulder. Suspiciously, might I add. "He's just at his desk uh… you know, working, doing some accounting. Like an accountant. Because he's an accountant…" He trails off. Why does Mr. Kirk relies on Matt to cover for him? Not only is it dangerous for Matt, but he sucks at it. Mr. Kirk must know _someone_ who can tell a decent lie.

 

"I'm going to check on him, see if he needs any help."

 

"Oh no," Matt laughs, taking a obvious step towards the door. "He's fine. Actually, I was hoping you could help me study."

 

"I don't-"

 

"It'll be easy. We'll just quiz each other." He flips hurriedly through his textbook. "Which royal house ruled France between 1328 and 1589?"

 

I roll my eyes, but answer anyways. "Valois." What is Mr. Kirk doing?

 

"Which house succeeded the House of Valois?"

 

"Bourbon." Why am I playing along? 

 

"Which Valois king and patron of Leonardo da Vinci ruled from 1515 to 1547?"

 

"Francois I." None of this shit was on the test! 

 

"Which-"

 

"Look, Matt, buddy," I say, glancing at my watch without meaning to. Mr. Kirk could be hacking the system for all I know. "I gotta go. I have work to do."

 

"No!" Matt throws himself in front of the door, desperate to stall me.  Er- I mean…" Matt laughs awkwardly. He's such a terrible actor. "One more! This one's a hard one, I swear!"

 

"Matt, I'm going to tell you something very few people know." I grab him by the shoulders and slowly, so he doesn't realize it, reverse our positions. I could lie, but decide not to. He's so painfully honest whether he means to be or the truth just happens to be written all over his face that I feel like I have to repay it, if only a little. "I have a medical condition called hyperthymesia. It means I don't forget shit. If we learned it in class, I know the answer."

 

And then I slip out the door, easy as cake. But by the time I make it to the cubicles, Mr. Kirk is tapping away at the keyboard, doing nothing suspicious at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Gabe wants a message passed. Tonight," Luka announces as soon as I step into his office later that day, before I can close the door. He's busy looking over some papers and doesn't even deign to give me a glance. A conspicuous manila folder sits on the corner of his desk. I hate manila folders.

 

"I can't," I protest, "I have-"

 

"A baseball game to attend?"

 

Fuck. He wasn't supposed to know about that. What else does he know about? Does he know Matt saw me that night? Does he know what Mr. Kirk got away with this morning? "What are-"

 

Luka finally looks up, fixing me with an almost bored gaze. He's definitely pissed. "Don't even try to lie to me." His eyes wander over to the folder, silently instructing me to pick it up.

 

I do. And then retreat before opening it.

 

Inside is a picture of a man who I would have forgotten long ago, if I were capable of such a thing. Unfortunately, I can't, and I remember every wretched memory of him in that godforsaken room. When was this picture taken? Twenty years ago? Ten years ago? Yesterday? He looks exactly as I remember him: thinning brown hair, crooked nose, wispy smile. Just your average successful businessman. Just one in a long line of men who hurt me day after day.

 

In that sense, I wasn't unique. However, I suppose that by carrying out my "jobs", I can exact my revenge, and that's a pleasure only I get to enjoy.

 

The only problem is… I don't find my revenge against them as enjoyable as it should be. I hate each and every one of them, don't get me wrong, but for some reason, I get a strange feeling in my chest whenever a manila folder waits for me on the corner of Luka's desk.

 

Now that I really think about it, it's probably because they aren't suffering enough at the pointy end of my blade.

 

"I'm worried about you," Luka sighs, pushing away his paperwork. "He's a cop. I don't want you getting found out."

 

Too late. "Then why are making me do this?" I wave the folder. "This is stupid."

 

Luka shrugs. "Gabe said it had to be tonight at the game. You know how he is. Come here." He beckons me towards him.

 

I eye him warily. Is he mad?

 

"I'm not mad," Luka answers my unvoiced question. "I just want you to be safe."

 

Sounds legit. I walk across his office, first setting the folder down on a chair, and he even stands up, meeting me halfway, just in front of his desk.

 

He cradles my cheek with his palm as I look up into his eyes. Yeahhh… No. He's pretty angry. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and then he's kissing me softly, waiting until I part my lips slightly instead of just taking what he wants, both of which would be fine by me if he weren't angry. Why is he being so nice?

 

Luka nips lightly at my lower lip, then soothes the subtle sting with gentle licks before finally deepening the kiss. I sigh into his mouth, foolishly believing that he just feels like being nice, and wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tip toes for better leverage-

 

All of a sudden he pushes me away, and I stumble backwards, half trip over a chair - grasp for something to hold onto - but wind up on the floor.

 

"What the-" I look up at Luka, but am silenced by the dark look in his eyes.

 

I suddenly realize I was wrong earlier. He's not angry; he's jealous. An ugly sort of possessiveness smolders in his dark eyes, like he thinks Matt and I are fucking behind his back, which is stupid because I never top. Literally. I don't think I could even get it up to fuck someone. Unless, he thinks Matt is fucking me, which is also stupid because… because he's Matt. If he weren't 6 feet tall, I wouldn't think he's hit puberty yet. He's not done growing either, judging by how tall his dad…

 

Oh.

 

"Do you think I agreed to go to the game because Mr. Kirk and I are fucking?" I ask, picking myself up and dusting myself off. Sure, he's tall and handsome, but… "I wouldn't do that to you, Luka. You should know that already." I take a tentative step forward. "I love _you._ Not Gabe, and definitely not Mr. Kirk." I bridge the distance between us, carefully gauging the look in Luka's eyes. I reach out, loosely grasping Luka's tie, letting the silky smoothness slide between my fingers as I take another step forward. I picked it out for him this morning. It's black, like my shirt.

 

Not that I was trying to match, or something equally gross and couple-like. I just happened to like black this morning. And maybe… maybe something a little couple-like. Matching never killed anyone. Except for that one guy last June, but, let's be real, I did the killing.

 

I tug on Luka's tie, biting my lip coyly and looking up at him through my lashes. "I love you," I say again, pulling him down and tilting my head up to kiss him. We meet halfway, we're so close, so close, only a hairsbreadth away from each other, but Luka pauses, and I'm left just staring into his eyes. It'd be awkward in any other situation.

 

Luka's gaze is deep, intense, searching. His pupils are just barely distinguishable from the dark brown, almost black, of his irises, but no matter how hard it is to make out, I can see them flickering back and forth, raking through my soul, looking for whatever it is. The pressure to pass his test, to please him, is overwhelming. It crushes my lungs. I can't even breathe. My head spins with want of oxygen, and also want of Luka because, seriously, we're so close, and he's so… so want-able. It would be so easy to just tilt my head up and kiss him, but I can't because that's a big faux pas. If I want to kiss him, then I need permission, permission which he hasn't granted yet.

 

Finally, after an eternity, the sharpness in his gaze softens, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can't help but smile a little as Luka leans forward, closing the last bit of distance between us, and let my eyes slip closed. He presses his lips against mine, soft and meaningful, almost chaste, but not quite. It feels like heaven. I can never remember how much of my world is made of Luka until it's threatening to crumble, how much these tender moments mean to me until they're gone.

 

It quickly devolves into passionate, debauched lovemaking. Luka growls, biting and sucking at my lower lip, then my tongue. His hands slip down a little lower from where they were resting on my hips to kneading my ass. His strong fingers dig in particularly hard, and _push_ , and my hole opens up even between layers of fabric. It practically sucks in the fabric of my boxers - uncomfortable - but I can't bring myself to care. Something about his rough handling makes my knees weak, my head spin.

 

I grab the lapel of Luka's suit with one hand, the other tangling itself in his dark hair, and pull him closer. "I love you," I moan, trying to catch my breath as Luka peppers kisses down the side of my throat, pausing to suck a red mark at the junction of my shoulder. He growls possessively.

 

He does the thing with his fingers again, pushing me further onto my tiptoes, and I scrabble at his chest for purchase, barely coherent with need. His mouth returns to cover mine, muffling the wanton moans. All I want is for Luka to throw me over his desk and fuck me into next week, to gag me with his tie and take what he wants, to make me beg for release, to spend himself inside me and send me away leaking his come.

 

Alas, it's over all too soon. Luka gently pulls away, leaving me dazed and panting against his chest. His hands continue working my ass, but slower, without their previous intent.

 

"Shh…" Luka says quietly, shushing my needy whines which I hadn't consciously been making. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and rubs circles into the small of my back. "Good boy," he says when I finally fall silent, his voice rough with what I hope to be arousal. I don't know about him, but I'm definitely hard.

 

Luka pushes me off his chest, and hold me by my shoulders and arms length away. He leans down to look my in the eye. "If you do your job well, I'll give you a reward, okay?" he asks.

 

I nod my head, still a little dazed and out of it, but I get the gist of his meaning. Finish job equals very good. Fail job equals very bad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not a fan of baseball. Basketball is much more fun, in my humble opinion. Why did I agree to this again?

 

A condom commercial comes on the big screen at the bottom of the fifth inning, sending the crowd into an uproar. Everybody around me laughs, so I do too just for the heck of it. Laughing never killed anybody, except- Well, you know how it goes.

 

Matt and Mr. Kirk laugh too, but after the stadium quiets down – relatively, at least – Mr. Kirk turns to me with a sober expression. “Kyle, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but… stay safe, okay?”

 

I nod without taking him seriously, but he grabs me by my shoulder and shakes my entire body back and forth with vigor.

 

“I’m serious. People talk about…” his voice lowers to an almost imperceptible volume, especially in the loud stadium, and his hand clamps down on my shoulder in a bone-crushing grip. He’s staring into my eyes, but has a faraway look like he’s thinking really hard about something sad, but important to him, so I wince to get his attention even though I don’t really mind the pain. He snaps back to attention, loosening his hold. “People talk about you, you know? You and- You and Gabe… Gabriel…“ He fumbles for the right words, but I already know what he’s going to say.

 

"Let's go somewhere quieter," I say, and Mr. Kirk agrees after a moment of hesitation.

 

We find a men's restroom in a remote corner of the ballpark after telling Matt we were leaving to buy concessions. Ah, the men's restroom: a place where us men can brood in solidarity, away from the prying eyes of women, and take a piss while we're at it.

 

The two of us stand in silence under the flickering lights, there to neither brood nor piss, suffocated by the stench of dried urine. Some people just can't aim.

 

I speak first. "How much do you know?"

 

"I know…" Mr. Kirk looks around, paranoid, before saying quietly, "I know you're the assassin called the Ability Hound."

 

Well fuck. That pretty much sums it all up.

 

But Mr. Kirk continues, "And I know you won't turn me in to the mafia because I know you're not a bad person." I probably make an incredulous face because Mr. Kirk shakes his head. "I know that your father is Ignazio Valenti. I know you're not just Gabriel Valenti's adopted son; you're actually his cousin, and are being sexually abused-"

 

"What?"

 

"Kyle, you're still only 17. You're a minor. Even if you think you're consenting to having sex with Gabriel, what about all the other things he makes you do?"

 

I'm speechless. He knows way more about me than I thought he would, and it's more personal that I expected. I thought he'd look into my academic records or my nonexistent criminal record, not my sex life. But nothing is as surprising as what he says next.

 

"I'm worried about you."

 

The exact same words Luka said to me earlier today, equally sincere and worried, but they sound very different. "Sorry, Mr. Kirk," I cough uncomfortably,  "I-"

 

"I want to help you! Please," he implores, "tell me how. No one deserves what Gabriel has done to you." He sounds so painfully genuine, so sickeningly kind. I hate nice people.

 

Where exactly did this go wrong? I thought we were going to talk about my criminal activities, not my history of whoring, which, by the way, could have been much worse. Where does he get off on saying I was abused? At least Gabe didn't let any sicko get his hands on me. It's thanks to Gabe that I'm not dying from AIDs or Herpes. It's thanks to Gabe-

 

Okay, who am I kidding. I hate Gabe's guts with a burning passion. But still… He wasn't all bad, not the way Mr. Kirk is putting it. And, more than anything, I don't need help. Just because I used to be "abused" doesn't mean I still am. That stuff happened almost a decade ago, ancient history. If he wanted to help me, then he should have done it back then. It's too late now because Luka stole his thunder a long time ago.

 

I glance at my watch. It's almost time to go. In twenty minutes, Herbert Gompur's guard detail will be changing, and I can't let the next one get to his post.

 

Mr. Kirk stiffens when he catches sight of me checking the time. His gaze narrows. "Do you have a job tonight?" he asks warily.

 

"Are you armed?"

 

He answers my question my pulling out a gun. I pause, surprised. The possession of a firearm has been illegal for almost one hundred years, every since the current king took the throne. Only licensed government workers, a handful of bodyguards, and criminals have guns, which means Mr. Kirk was ready to blow his cover, which in turn means our game of house is coming to a close.

 

"I'll ask you one more time," Mr. Kirk warns, "Do you have a job tonight?"

 

I shrug as nonchalantly as possible when being held at gunpoint, the weight of a pocketknife in my jeans a small comfort. "I'll tell you this, Mr. Kirk," I say, pulling shit from thin air, "I'm not reckless." God knows what that means, but it sounds legit.

 

"What do-" An explosion from outside rocks the entire bathroom, the force of which causes the light fixtures to rattle in the ceiling. I definitely did not make an undignified noise. Mr. Kirk looks at me with bewildered eyes. "Is this what 'not reckless' means?!" he yells over the chaos spilling through the door.

 

I shake my head. "I didn't do this!" Another explosion, and a pipe springs loose, spraying water into the air.

 

Mr. Kirk looks between me and the door, conflicted, not lowering his gun for a moment, but ultimately makes his choice. "I have to make sure Matt is okay," he says, leaving me alone in the gross bathroom.

 

_"What a great father_ ," I think, _"he must love Matt very much."_

 

Matt's fine though. The explosion was on the other side of the stands. After all, just because I didn't do it doesn't mean I don't know who did it, or what it is. It was in the file, and I could have stopped it, could have saved lives. But that wasn't the plan.

 

Do I feel guilty? Sick? Scared? It's a null point; how I feel doesn't matter. All that matters is that I get the job done, because at the end of the day, I'm still disposable. Luka will never put me in front of the Family.

 

I wish, though. Sometimes, I wish that he'd mean it when he says he loves me, when he says I mean the world to him, when he says he'd do anything for me. I vaguely realize that I'm just being strung along until he finds a nice wife to settle down with. A woman can give him kids and even power, if he marries right. On the other hand, I have nothing to give him - except myself - and I'm his cousin to boot. Our relationship isn't exactly a social norm.

 

But again, it's a null point. I can't escape Luka any more than man can escape his fate.

 

Besides, even if he only keeps me around for fun like a child keeps a pet, or for an inexplicable desire to possess me mind, body, and soul - or whatever is in youth romance novels these days - I can never leave him. He's given me everything: a family, a home, an education, and a taste of normalcy. I owe him everything.

 

I reluctantly glance at my watch one more time. I have a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, Kyle's ability isn't used in this chapter, but it will be in the next one.
> 
> Let me know how confused you guys are and if it's the good or bad kind of confused, thanks!
> 
> Lastly, happy Valentines Day! What better way to celebrate than this story of twisted love?


	5. Brief Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter I've posted today, mostly for plot purposes, so you should probably read chapter 4 first, which is considerably longer, if you haven't already. I wrote it in 3rd person because I'm tired of writing in 1st person. Why did I do this to myself? TT-TT
> 
> It feels so awkward to write in 1st person, but I'm not funny! This is the only way I can be mildly humorous!
> 
> Ahem, anyways...

**_Friday morning_ **

 

_"Dad! Dad!" Matt whispers noisily, walking unnaturally quickly to his father's desk._

 

_"What is it, son?" his father asks, pulling him aside while discreetly stowing a flash drive into his pocket. It's so hot that it nearly burns him through the fabric of his pants. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Kyle is gone._

 

_"Kyle just told me that he's hyperthymic, meaning he remembers everything! What if he notices?!"_

 

_Joseph is initially confused, but understanding dawns on him. "Do you mean_ hyperthymesiac _? I'd heard rumors," he says, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "but are you sure?"_

 

_"YES!" Matt answers impatiently, then realizes that the office is staring at him. He looks around and laughs sheepishly as they return to their work. "What if he notices?" Matt asks again, quieter._

 

_"Hyperthymesia is also called Superior Autobiographical Memory." Mr. Kirk explains. "Kyle should only be able to remember events which happened to him, not small details like the papers on Luka's desk."_

 

_"But he knew Francois I! Nobody knows Francois I!"_

 

_His dad sighs, the weary lines of his face looking more haggard than ever. "I don't know, son, maybe he just loves history." But at the dissatisfied look on Matt's face, he adds, "I'll be careful, I promise."_

 

 

_Little did he know, that being careful couldn't save him in the end._


	6. Window to the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never seen 50 Shades of Grey, but I have watched the trailer *winkwink* Anyone recognize a particular paragraph?
> 
> What's that? Do I listen to music when I write? If you're asking whether I belt my heart out while staring at an empty Word document, then why yes, yes I do. Please, sing along with me.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhSA9H9Iaqw&list=PLKSrVTbFK3ecOgaQgO5NHonLQM4_OaSGA
> 
> I like pretty much all music, so the genres might be all over the place, but this is what I listen to when I write. I usually base my selections on the lyrics, but there's always a little leeway if I really like the song ;) If you think there's a song I should add, feel free to send me suggestions! Also, I've never linked a playlist before, so sorry if it doesn't work.

Without really meaning to, I slip my hand into my pocket, fingering the steel edge of a butterfly knife, my trigger. Non-carriers would never understand, but it just feels _right_ to hold one - thrilling - like little sparks of lightning running through my veins.

 

I'm surrounded by chaos. People are running towards the exits, herding their children and pushing past strangers. I'd stick out like a sore thumb - casually walking the other way and all - if somebody had the presence of mind to notice me. Another explosion from the other side of the stands rocks the entire stadium, and people panic with renewed vigor, shoving this way and that.

 

According to the goddamn manila file, Herbert Gompur, my target and the CEO of a security consulting firm from New York, paid off some minor punks to rig part of the ballpark with explosives in order to convince city officials that Chicago is at risk for terrorist attacks.

 

Which is fine. Chicago is a trade hub, and war with Zippanese rebels is looming over the horizon. He's probably not wrong. The only problem is that Chance Meyers, the CEO of a rival security company from Boston,  has closer ties to the Valenti Family, who rule Chicago from behind the scenes. And they're not pleased that Gompur is taking the initiative.

 

Hence the need for a "chat". Hopefully it won't escalate. I don't mind killing Gompur - he's never done me any favors - but even assassins feel lazy sometimes.

 

Judging from the location of the explosions and the information in the manila file, I'd say that Gompur is currently casually sitting in a private box directly above where I am now. He could evacuate, but I get the feeling he'd much rather watch his plan unfold with a glass of wine and a few bodyguards to accompany him.

 

It should be easy enough to disarm them with the element of surprise on my side, and if my memory serves right, which it always does, Gompur is physically incompetent. Now, if only I could figure out how to get to the private boxes…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good evening, Mr. Gompur," I greet politely - like Luka's mother taught me - while knocking out his second guard with a quick chop to the neck. In the time it took me to find the entrance to the private boxes, two more explosions went off. "Enjoying the scenery?"

 

He immediately jumps up from his chair, wine sloshing from his glass onto the plush, carpet floor, and spins around. "Guards!" he shouts, then sees the two bodies laying at my feet.

 

"Don't worry," I assure him, kicking their limp bodies aside, creating enough space to walk through, "you're perfectly safe with me." After a moment of thought, I crouch down and rifle through their clothes for a gun. It would have been dangerous and incriminating to bring one into the park, especially with Mr. Kirk around, but he's gone now, so it should be fine. They each have a gun hidden in their inside breast pocket. Since I can't decide which one I prefer, I take both, tucking one into the back of my jeans, and cocking the other. "Now, Mr. Gompur-"

 

"Who are you?! Get away from me!" he yells, backing into the glass wall of the box. I want to tell him that I'm already on the far side of the room, and can't really get any further away, but he's preoccupied with searching through his jacket for something. Perhaps a cell phone to call for security?

 

He pulls out a gun.

 

Well, fuck. He's not supposed to have one of those. "That's no good," I chide while he fumbles with the safety. I glance haphazardly down my sight, taking aim at his gun. Hopefully I don't miss.

 

I fire a shot, and then Gompur is screaming. His gun clatters to the ground as he flails against the glass barrier that prevents him from taking a long tumble down to the field, a bleeding hand cradled tightly against his chest.

 

Eh, close enough.

 

I smile sweetly. "Why don't you sit back down, Mr. Gompur? I can bandage that for you, but you'll have to see a doctor if you want to remove the bullet, so I suggest we finish our conversation quickly."

 

Gompur looks back and forth between me and his hand with a panicked expression. "Please, don't kill me!" he begs. Why do they always think I'm going to kill them? "You can have a cut of the drugs if you want!"

 

I arch an eyebrow suspiciously. "Drugs?" There was nothing in the file about drugs. "Gabriel Valenti sent me. I'm here about the government contract. You know, the reason why you're bombing this place."

 

The balding man freezes, sweat visibly beading his hairline. Maybe it's just my imagination, but his hand seems to bleed harder, possibly a side-effect of his aging heart hammering away. "U-uh…" he stammers, eyes beginning to dart around like he's planning on doing something stupid.

 

I fire a warning shot into the beige wall to the side. "Don't move."

 

Gompur whimpers pitifully, huddled in a ball against the glass wall. "The guards on the next shift will be here any minute!" he cries. "They're all very powerful carriers!"

 

It's hard to say whether he's lying or not, both about whether they'll be here soon and their skill level. First of all, they could have evacuated along with the rest of the crowd. Second of all, although he wouldn't knowingly hire incompetent guards, it's easy enough to fool someone with an untrained eye because instead of taking an ability class, non-carriers take Phys Ed.

 

As a carrier, I've never been in PE, but I imagine they teach at least the definition of a carrier: someone who is born with and 'carries' an extra chromosome, which allows them to manifest their energy - mana, aura, whatever you want to call it - as an ability.

 

Do non-carriers learn the three categories of abilities? (Elemental, somatic, and special.) Or their differences? (The first two have triggers to active them, while special abilities are, for the most part, involuntary.) It all seems so natural to me that I've never wondered how non-carriers view our world.

 

With a sigh, I tuck my gun into the waistband of my jeans, next to the other one, then reach into my pocket and pull out my knife. I flick it open, feeling a rush of energy, and blink, slowly. When I open my eyes again, the entire world is illuminated with multitudes of colors.

 

Every carrier who was in this box left a residue, a trail of energy as he or she passed through. Carriers with stronger auras leave stronger trails, and my ability - registered with the Bureau of Ability Affairs (BAA) as Ocular Trace - allows me to see those trails. They look like… floating, glowing threads. There's no other way to describe it.

 

Every ability has a distinctive appearance, but even each trail is a little bit different, reflecting the soul of their owners. In a word, beautiful. In two words, fucking chaotic. Carriers make up roughly half of the population, so the trails get convoluted and tangled, especially in busy places like here.

 

By now everyone has evacuated. As I scan the silent field, filled with immobile strands of neon thread, everything is still. Although on one hand my ability allows me to see through solid objects, on the other hand I can't see any solid objects. Period. My other senses remain unaffected, but even though I can hear Gompur's dial tone as he messes with his phone, I can't see him, and it makes me feel vulnerable.

 

Rationally, I know he's about as threatening as a wet tissue, but I still don't like to use my ability for extended periods of time.

 

I blink again, and close the knife, stowing it back in my pocket as the warm thrum beneath my skin slowly subsides. When I open them again, Gompur is staring at me, catching flies with his gaping mouth.

 

"What?" I ask, confident no guards are on their way. "No one's coming for you."

 

"Your- your eyes were…" Gompur lifts a shaky finger at me, finally having given up on trying to dial for help. His other hand is still bleeding, but considerably less, hopefully not a sign of an impending heart attack.

 

I sigh, scratching my head before reaching for a gun. "My eyes were yellow? Yeah, it happens sometimes." I say, not wanting to get into the details of how they turn yellow when I activate my ability and why. "Look, just promise you'll give up on the contract and I'll leave, okay?"

 

This should be enough. After all, my instructions were to 'pass a message' along.

 

Gompur nods vigorously, a hint of color returning to his face. I turn to leave, but Gompur stops me, shouting, "Wait! Are you… t-the Ability Hound?"

 

I stop in the doorway, contemplating my answer before finally saying, "If I were the Ability Hound, then I'd be signing my name all over the carpet in your blood. I'm just Kyle Valenti, part time accountant." I look back and fire another shot, straight into the glass wall, just because I can, causing Gompur to squeal in terror. "Remember, don't sign the contract."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I got a call," says Luka as soon as I close the door. He's leaning casually against the wall in the narrow entrance way, wearing faded black skinny jeans and a fitted shirt with two out of three buttons undone. A few strands of his hair have fallen out of their slicked back perfection into something more dangerous and edgy. It should be illegal to look so hot in regular clothes.

 

"Uh… okay?" I reply hesitantly, kicking my shoes off. That doesn't sound very good.

 

"It was from Herbert Gompur."

 

I wince inwardly. "Look, whatever he told you…" I say to Luka pleadingly, taking a step toward him. I worked so hard today. I had a gun pulled on me, experienced several potentially lethal explosions, and had to deal with someone I can never forget no matter how much I want to. I just want my reward, but it doesn't look like I'll get it.

 

Luka pushes off the wall, taking dangerously slow, measured steps towards me. I squeeze my eyes shut, ready for the inevitable.

 

Waiting…

 

Waiting…

 

Waiting…

 

Nothing. I cautiously open one eye, scared of what kind of expression he'll be wearing, but instead find Luka smiling down at me. He ruffles my hair and laughs, "It was pretty funny."

 

"Oh." I say, stupidly. He got me good.

 

Luka slowly crowds me against the wall, and his smiles fades into a gentle expression. One hand - big and warm - comes up to brush against my cheek, then slides down lower, fitting itself along the back of my neck. He leans in, coming so close, but stopping yet again, stealing my breath away with the heat of his gaze.

 

My vision zooms in on his lips, soft and gentle, but sometimes rough and domineering. For a single, naughty moment, I think about simply leaning forward and kissing him, but I don't. I look back up at Luka, and he's looking right back at me, almost as if he knew what I was thinking.

 

They say eyes are the window to the soul.

 

Luka's soul is big and warm. Although it's surrounded by a dark, frigid exterior, underneath it's soft, generous, and brown, like his eyes, like a steaming cup of coffee, like a teddy bear. Can he see my soul? Do I even have a soul?

 

He leans in impossibly closer, but is still a world away for all I care, like a limit on a graph. The line draws closer and closer to infinity, but never quite makes it. My eyes flutter shut, my heart pounds harder in my chest. I can feel a flush rising to my cheeks, as Luka's heat, scent, presence envelops my entire being.

 

"Go get changed."

 

Suddenly he's gone, straightening up with a smirk and leaving me high and dry like we weren't _this close_ to making out against the door. " _Goddammit,"_ I think bitterly, trying futilely to wipe the flush, the humiliation, from my cheeks, _"It was a hole: the function wasn't continuous for all values of x."_

 

"Why?" I ask sourly, roughly pushing past Luka into the living room, which should be anyone's prerogative after getting played like that. Twice in the span of five minutes. I need some liniment for my ego. "You said that you'd give me a reward if I did good!"

 

Luka laughs, reaching for a mostly empty glass of wine on the table. I guess I know what he was doing before I came home. "This is your reward. C'mon, get changed." He downs the remainder in one go, eyes never leaving me, as his words sink in.

 

"But- but…" I protest, disappointment evident in my voice.

 

"Humor me, won't you, love?" Luka smiles, steering me towards the bedroom.

 

I sigh, and open my mouth to ask what I'm supposed to wear, but see a bag of clothes sitting on the bed. I walk up to it, almost afraid of what's inside. Perhaps a dress, or lingerie, but that's admittedly more of Gabe's style. I reach my hand in, and pull out… a scarf. It's red and black plaid with some fringe on both ends.

 

I turn around and raise an eyebrow at Luka, but he only continues to smile. "There's more."

 

"Why are you in such a good mood?" I ask him, but he just shrugs. There's definitely something up. Reaching into the bag again, I pull out a white graphic tee. I hold it up in the light, looking at the black, tribal design on the front. "Wow, Luka," I say without much enthusiasm, "It's a T-shirt. How exciting."

 

"There's still one more," says Luka, my reaction not at all dampening his mood.

 

With a sigh, I reach into the back one last time, and pull out a pair of dark blue jeans, almost black, but still clearly blue. "Cool, Luka," I tell him, beginning to feel upset. "Thanks…" The thought of coming home tonight was the only thing that pulled me through the day, and all that was waiting for me was a bag of clothes.

 

Not that clothes are bad. I like clothes; they keep me warm. But… I wish there was more.

 

"Put them on," Luka prompts, pulling me closer, into his arms, and whispers lowly in my ear, sending shivers down my spine, "And maybe I'll take them off later."

 

He must notice me perk up a little, because he sends me off to the bathroom with a playful push.

 

After closing the door, I strip my clothes off hurriedly, folding them somewhat messily then laying them on the counter. The shirt is easy to get on - I just pull it over my head - but I have to _really_ struggle with the pants because they're so damn skinny. As for the scarf, I throw it over my neck, then take a quick glance in the mirror before exiting.

 

"I'm done," I announce impatiently, spreading my arms to the side to let Luka look his fill. He'd sat down while I was changing, but he stands up and lazily walks towards me with appraising eyes. He's not saying anything, but he looks pleased nonetheless. "The pants are really tight," I tell him to fill the silence. "I'd think they were painted on if I couldn't feel them cutting off circulation."

 

Luka takes the scarf by both ends and wraps them around my neck, tying it just the right degree of casual. I huff an impatient breath, waiting for him to respond, to say something. Eating, walking, talking - he does everything slowly! Finally, Luka answers, placing his hands on my hips, "I know. Now anyone can see this nice ass." He squeezes my waist lightly for emphasis.

 

I smile a little at his words. "What if I think their ass looks good, too?" I ask coyly with my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe.

 

"Then that's too bad, because you're mine," Luka says simply, giving me a peck on the nose. Then he unwraps my arms and gently pushes me away, jilting me. Again. "Come on, let's go."

 

He tries to steer me towards the door, but I shake his hand off and step away angrily. "What the fuck? Why are you being so mean?"

 

Luka looks at me quizzically. "What do you mean?"

 

"You just…" I avert my eyes, my mouth drawn into a pout. He keeps on pushing me away, but I feel embarrassed to say it out loud. It'd make me sound clingy, and I'm _not_ clingy. Or needy. Or whiny. If I were, then I'd be no different from a typical 'annoying girlfriend'. "Nothing," I eventually say, pushing past Luka, and exit the room on my own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So," I say once we're outside, strolling leisurely on the sidewalk while cars zoom past us. They completely disregard the speed limit, but then again, who doesn't? I regret not grabbing a jacket on the way out. "Where are we going?"

 

It's the first words we've said since leaving the apartment. As one might infer, the elevator ride down was pretty awkward. When I was younger, I loved elevators, but I'm starting to grow ambivalent towards them. I'll admit, I've shared some pretty great - explicit - moments with Luka in them, but their potential to be awkward is infinitely greater.

 

"You'll see," Luka replies, steering me to the left.

 

We don't usually come down here. I wonder what he's up to…

 

Despite the late hour, the streets of Chicago are still fairly busy. Lone figures make their way home. Couples walk hand in hand. Prostitutes look for their next john. A drug deal goes down on the corner. Not exactly the best place to do shady business - in the middle of the street in the heart of Chicago - but it's not my problem.

 

I feel like it'd be busier if the ballpark hadn't been a victim of domestic terrorism, and now that I'm thinking about it, I can't get what Gompur said out of my mind. Drugs? He's the CEO of a security consulting firm. Why is he trafficking drugs?

 

"Kyle," Luka says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. "I… I wasn't trying to be mean, you know. " I nod. "Last night got me thinking: we don't always have to have sex. We can do other things together." I nod again, even though I don't understand where he's going with this.

 

We do plenty of things together besides fuck. We eat dinner together. We watch TV together. We solve crosswords and sudoku together. We sleep together, and even shower together if we're in a rush.

 

"I realized that… we never really go out. You're busy with school, and I'm busy with work. But since I'm going on a business trip tomorrow, for about a week, I wanted to do something special with you. So… I thought we could watch a movie together."

 

We come to a stop in front of a run down cinema with a flickering neon sign saying 'C NEMA'. I might've walked by in broad daylight and thought it was an antique store.

 

"I get it," I say impatiently, just wanting the night to be over; it's been a long and unsatisfactory day. We can have quality time any other day of the week, just not today. All I wanted to do after work was fuck. And now I'm about to sit through two hours of some crappy comedy with a sappy ending. Forgive me for thinking like a horny teenager, but I _am_ a horny teenager.

 

And, like I said, I had a crappy day. In fact, the more I think about it, the crappier it gets. I stubbed my toe in the morning. Had to review a shit ton of job applicants. Saw ugly ass Herbert Gompur who I never wanted to think about again. Mr. Kirk confirmed my fears that he more than suspects my illegal side job. He _knows_ about it. And my entire, humiliating life story.

 

Which wouldn't be that bad if I didn't… didn't kind of, _kind of_ , want him to… I don't know. Like me?

 

I can't believe I just thought that.

 

But… if someone as genuine and earnest as Mr. Kirk likes me, then that must say something about me, too. Right?

 

 "Kyle… Kyle."

 

"What?"

 

Luka's voice pulls me out of my increasingly stupid spiral of thoughts. I must've been making a strange expression because Luka grabs my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. "I only want you to be happy," he says seriously, pressing his lips to my cold knuckles. "So, what do you want to watch?"

 

And maybe… maybe my day brightens just a little bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We end up watching some crappy comedy with a sappy ending, but I can't bring myself to care. Luka holds my hand throughout the entire movie, and while we walk out of the theater, and even all the way home. It's rare for him to be so affectionate in public.

 

A random stranger catcalls at we walk by - probably because of the pants - but Luka shoots daggers at him with his eyes and pulls me in closer. I leaned my head against his warm chest, content to listen to the steady thump of his heart mixed with car horns honking in the background.

 

"What'd you think of his ass?" Luka asks as we step into the elevator.

 

I pretend to think about it, pursing my lips thoughtfully. "Well… it _was_ pretty nice." I step away from Luka, practically daring him to come get me.

 

He does.

 

He pushes me against the wall, hands cupping my cheeks, claiming my lips in a searing hot kiss. I try to grab at his shoulders, but he forces my arms above my head and against the wall, pinning them there so I'm absolutely helpless, at his mercy.

 

I struggle against Luka's hold even as I moan into his mouth. I'll never admit it out loud, but a part of me enjoys being held down, enjoys being roughed up and taken from.

 

"Luka, please…" I beg as he rips away my new scarf away and peppers kisses down the side of my neck, not even sure what I'm asking for. He rolls his hips against mine, slow and sensual, and I go weak at the knees, but Luka's tight grip doesn't let me fall to the ground. I lean heavily against the wall, breathless. "Unh…"

 

Luka growls, his hands roaming beneath my shirt, and I arch against him with a breathless whine. Everywhere his hands touch feels too hot, oversensitive.

 

I don't even realize the elevator dings and the doors slide open until Luka drags me out into the hallway, still intent on covering every inch of my neck with red hickeys. God knows how we got the front door open, but we stumble inside, not bothering to lock it.

 

Once we stumble into the bedroom, Luka pauses just long enough to let me pull my shirt over my head. I try to fold it, but he's already pushing me down onto the sheets, and the shirt falls to the ground in a messy pile.

 

We make out on top of the covers, hot and messy. Luka runs his hands down my bare chest, flicking a nipple, causing me to buck up against his hard on. Our teeth clack together more than once or twice, but that just makes it better. He growls into my mouth, primal, like he's losing his hold on himself. The fact that I can do that to him is thrilling.

 

"Off…" I say between breaths, trying to tug his shirt off, and suddenly, in one quick motion his shirt is gone, halfway across the room.

 

I can't stop myself from staring at Luka's sculpted chest. I run a finger down the hard line of his abs, feeling a dumb smile twist the corner of my lips. "This is mine…" I whisper, looking up a Luka through my lashes.

 

"It is," Luka agrees, capturing my lips once more, but slower, more sensual. "I'm yours. All yours," he breaths against my lips, forehead bumping against mine.

 

"These pants are killing me," I mumble.

 

I try to shimmy out of them, but they're glued on tight. Luka helps, pushing them past my waist, and with a combined effort, they come off. It's a struggle all the way down, and by the end, we're both laughing so hard that we barely hear Luka's phone go off.

 

"Luka Valenti," he answers despite my best efforts to get him to ignore it.

 

While he speaks in low tones to whoever is on the other end of the line, I roll around on the bed, hugging a pillow to my chest and trying to contain the euphoria threatening to spill out of me. I feel like a middle school girl giggling over her crush.

 

Luka hangs up, and I roll towards him, ready to get on with it, but one look at his expression tells me that it's not going to happen.

 

"I have to go," he says, already heading towards the bathroom to get changed.

 

"Go where?"

 

"Boston."

 

My heart sinks in its chest. "I thought you were leaving tomorrow morning," I reply casually, trying not to sound too disappointed. No one rained on my parade. There's no rain at all. Not from any clouds. Not from my eyes. It's piss. The universe is pissing on my parade.

 

Luka reemerges in his usual suit with a white button up and a slate grey tie. "Something came up. I'm so sorry, babe." He grabs his wallet and keys from his bedside table, leaning over to kiss me on the cheek. "I'll try to be back as soon as possible. I'll make this up to you, I swear."

 

I get up, picking up my discarded clothes from the floor, and pulling the shirt over my head. "At least let me see you to the airport," I say with one foot in the jeans he bought for me, but Luka puts a hand to my chest and pushes me back down on the bed.

 

"It's okay Kyle, you've had a long day." Luka crouches down and gently pulls the pants leg off, then lifts my shirt up over my head. He ushers me under the covers, and tucks me in, smoothing strands of my hair away from my face like I'm ten years old. "I love you," Luka says gently. His eyes are filled with apology, but the windows to his soul are shut tightly.

 

He turns the lamp off and closes the door quietly behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

 

I take it back. Today has been resolutely, one-hundred and twenty percent crappy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment/review! 
> 
> Now that I think about it, please don't sue me for copyright infringement, or something. Being pinned against an elevator wall is perfectly normal occurrence and nothing to get territorial over. I'm sure it happens to everyone at some point in their life.
> 
> Finally, thanks a million to hix, who has been a fountain of inspiration to me! And for covering my ass. This entire thing would have been like swiss cheese without you. Or a swiss cheese/blue cheese hybrid, except I kind of like blue cheese... I know! It'd be like Tonjit's cheese from One Piece :P


	7. Unstable Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, sorry! But I hope you guys like it :) Also, many thanks to hix for all her help! This story would be a train wreck without her.

The weekend slowly inches by without Luka. I don't have any reason to go to work, but it's the beginning of the school year, so after finishing my Calculus homework, I don't have any reason not to go either. I'm the only person in the office, and I slowly work through line after line of legitimate business transactions in silence. The only thing that could make the weekend worse is Gabe suddenly showing up.

 

Luckily, he doesn't, and Monday morning rolls around like a sleepy panda trying to right itself. Which is to say, I was beginning to worry it'd never come. And yet even as I walk in through the front entrance of the school, I'm already regretting it.

 

"Kyle!" A girl shouts my name, and the next thing I know, she's latched herself onto my arm.

 

I look down at her smoky eyes, sultry lips, and feel tired already. "Lana, hey," I say without enthusiasm. She's a junior, only one year younger than me, and pretty annoying, but I still have to look after her because that's what her sister would have wanted. I try to pry her off me, but she doesn't notice.

 

"Where's your hot ride?" she asks, still holding on resolutely. She snuggles up close to me like a girlfriend would, and I give up with a sigh, just letting her do as she likes.

 

"Oh my god,"I groan in exasperation. "Would you stop calling him hot? He's thirteen years older than you." It's a little bit strange to go from thinking about what I wish Luka had done to me over the weekend to pretending that we only share a platonic relationship, but I've gotten used to it over the years.

 

Lana licks her lips deviously. "I like older men."

 

She's nothing like her sister was. Lara was kind and selfless. Not innocent, but still pure. She was confident and never hid from the truth, the world, or herself. On the other hand, Lana is… a mess. She's got self-esteem issues probably stemming from growing up in the shadow of her perfect sister, hides her insecurities behind a face full of makeup, and is way too eager to try things way out of her depth.

 

But Lara still loved her, and that's why I have to look out for her.

 

"Get to class," I tell her sternly.

 

Lana makes a pouty face and clings tighter to me. "No!" she whines too loudly, drawing glances from other students. "It's only Lang!"

 

"Yeah, and you _only_ have three tardies. Get to class." I come to a stop in front of my first period, Calculus, and look down at Lana, trying to put some authority in my gaze. I don't come to school to play house with Lana, and I'm usually the one getting scolded at home, so it's strange to be in this role, but it's only been just over two years since Lara died, and Lana has already spiraled so far out of control. The least I can do is get her to attend class.

 

"Fine!" Lana finally huffs, storming off, but runs straight into Matt as she turns the corner. "Watch it!" she snaps, glaring up at him.

 

Matt whimpers, throwing his hands up in submission. "I'm sorry!"

 

I roll my eyes as I step into the classroom. He's so… Matt. He's towers over Lana by an entire foot, but is still skittish around her. I quickly pull my homework out from my backpack and turn it into the tray, stopping on the way back to sharpen my pencil, then turn around to make my way to my desk, only to find Matt situated in the seat beside mine.

 

"What are you doing here?" I hiss as I sit down. "Haven't you already taken Calculus?"

 

Matt shrugs with a smirk that definitely doesn't fit him. "There was a problem with my credit, so I'm taking it again."

 

"That's it? You don't want to take this to the councilor?"

 

"Nope," replies Matt smugly, "I just really love math."

 

Typical. One minute he's cowering in front of a high school girl and the next he's mouthing off to me.

 

This is the largest Calculus class, with thirty-one students. He could've been put in _any_ other period. His dad must've pulled some strings.

 

It's because of what happened on Friday.

 

Pulling a gun on me had been a risky move. On top of not even hampering my work, Mr. Kirk completely had trashed his cover as an accountant and now he can't monitor my activities anymore. I guess that's why he had Matt moved into my class, and Calculus probably isn't the only one. What other classes will he be able to share with me? Definitely not Somatic IV because he's not a carrier, and not track either, but Art is looking very likely.

 

Why would Mr. Kirk throw away his cover? What was he trying to accomplish? Or was it a mistake? Somehow I can't imagine a seasoned cop like him making a mistake like that. He has so many high profile arrests under his belt that would never have been possible if he fucks up so badly on a regular basis. Of course, his name is nowhere to be found in police databases, but anyone can be persuaded to do anything provided enough incentive, even rat out an undercover agent.

 

Is he becoming desperate to arrest me? Or is he desperate to achieve something else?

 

I try my best to pay attention to my teacher, but my mind keeps wandering off. At first I can't stop thinking about how likely I am to end up in prison by the end of the month, then about the baseball game, about what Mr. Kirk said to me, then about Gompurs and drugs. You know, actual important stuff.

 

But at some point I start thinking about my date with Luka, which makes me smile a little just thinking about it. I can still feel the warmth of his hand in mine, the smooth skin of his knuckles, and his long, graceful fingers. I was _so close_ to getting my reward until his phone rang. I wonder what it was… Maybe a blowjob and a fingering. That's always nice. Or maybe he would've eaten me out… A pang of arousal and longing strikes me at the thought.

 

Technology sucks.

 

I wish Luka would get back soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am so fucked.

 

Usually I like math; unlike my other classes, it's a challenge. But I spent so much time thinking about Mr. Kirk that I completely zoned out of class and now I have no idea what's going on. I can barely recall Matt "subtly" side-eyeing me, much less the teacher's lecture. My memory only works if my mind actually processes what's going on.

 

The bell rings and maybe I should try to at least figure out what tonight's homework is, but Matt is _right there_ , already packed up and ready to tail me to my next class, so instead I hightail the hell out of the Calculus classroom, almost bumping into Lana as I round the corner.

 

I get a sneaking suspicion that she never went to first period, but chose not to mention it, lest Lana gets upset with me, which is even more annoying than her skipping class. Somatic III and IV are in the same period, so we walk to class together, but she got here way too early. I pull her into a side hallway and watch as Matt looks every which way among the bustling crowd of students before finally hanging his head in defeat. He trudges away to his next class, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

"Hey there, sexy," Lana smirks sultrily - pathetically - drawing her finger down my chest.

 

I realize that I'm misleadingly close to her, and push away from the wall, dragging her by the hand back into the main hallway. "Would you stop it? You're like my sister."

 

She yanks her hand out of my grasp, and I look back to find her stopped in the middle of the hallway, attracting curious glances from the student body. "Why?!" She whines, stomping her foot on the ground.

 

"Not now, Lana," I groan.

 

"No! You never thought of Lara as a sister, so why am I like a sister to you?!"

 

I honest to god nearly face palm. "Maybe because you have the maturity of a five year old and insist on causing a scene in public! We can talk about this later. Let's go."

 

Lana pouts, but finally relents. Girls are so annoying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At lunch, Lana sets her tray down next to mine, turns to me, and asks in all seriousness, "Are you gay?"

 

I nearly choke on a mouthful of pasta, and it's not because of the 'Alfredo sauce'. The entire table, filled with people who've known me since before I spoke English fluently, immediately falls silent, looking at me expectantly. I know the right answer would be to laugh and answer sarcastically, maybe even lean in for a kiss with Lance, who's sitting on my other side. Instead, I choke out, "Fuck no! Why!?"

 

"Because you're staring weirdly at that nerd kid."

 

It's true. I had been watching Matt talking animatedly to some other kid from across the cafeteria, almost in disbelief that he actually made a friend. When did that happen? "First you accuse me of being too into Lara, and now you're asking if I'm into dudes?" I ask incredulously, internally scrambling to recompose myself.

 

After Lara, everyone just assumed that I was traumatized and not looking for a relationship. They were mostly right. No one has ever asked if I'm gay. I've never even thought about it myself. I've only ever had sex with men, so I could be bi for all I know. Plus, I started having sex before I really understood what attraction was, so maybe I'm actually straight.

 

The thought that Gabe conditioned me to be gay makes me feel unwell, and I push my tray away.

 

"Kyle?" Lana leans over with a concerned crinkle in her brow. "It's okay if you're gay," she says, sounding uncharacteristically genuine. The others nod.

 

"I'm not," I repeat, standing up and grabbing my backpack. "I have to do something."

 

Someone tries to stop me on my way out of the school, but I glare at him and he backs off immediately with a mumble apology.

 

Is he good looking?

 

I don't even know anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as I get home, I collapse face first onto the bed, feeling crankier than ever. I dropped my backpack off at the door, but I still feel like I'm being weighed down by something, and I don't think it's my brief sexuality crisis. That cooled off on the way home, mostly at least. Gabe still disgusts me.

 

I don't know how to describe it. My body aches, but not the kind of ache that comes from over exertion. There's a tightness in my muscles, an uncomfortableness in my chest. I feel restless. Finally, I realize what's wrong: I'm horny.

 

It's been five full days since I last got off. I don't think I've ever gone this long without sex since I was six years old.

 

My phone suddenly dings, and I scramble to pull it out of my pocket. For a wonderful, brief moment, I think it's Luka who texted me. Is he thinking of me? My heart soars. Then I see the caller ID.

 

Gabe.

 

It says, _"Be in my office at 5"._

 

With a disappointed sigh, I reply, " _Fuck off,"_ then put my phone to the side. I swear he decided to hire Mr. Kirk just to fuck with me. Well, he did a good job, and I don't appreciate it. God, I hate him.

 

Rolling over, I stare blankly at the ceiling, not sure of what I should do.

 

First thing's first: my pants have got to go.

 

I shuck my pants off, and fold them, laying them on Luka's side of the bed, then roll onto my back again. After a moment's pause, I hesitantly palm myself through the cotton fabric of my boxers, wondering if this is a good idea.

 

Have I ever even done this before?

 

Taking a quick scroll through my memories confirms that I have, in fact, never jerked off on my own. Sometimes Luka will let me touch myself, but only when I'm already at the edge, on the verge of coming.

 

I gather my courage and finally pull my boxers down so I can stroke the length of my cock freely. It's warm, dry, and limp. It's shorter than Luka's cock, thinner than Gabe's. A regular sized dick for a regular sized person.

 

At first I think I'm doing it wrong. It should be fairly intuitive and although it doesn't feel bad, it feels nothing like when I'm with Luka. But slowly a heat begins to build inside my stomach. "Nn…" A soft moan escapes my lips, and my eyes flutter shut. I let my head fall back onto the pillows, and try to focus on that warmth, gripping my cock more tightly.

 

My thoughts wander to Luka, imagining his devilishly handsome smile, smooth baritone, and musky cologne. I remember him from just a few mornings ago, standing under the spray of the shower while I brushed my teeth. Steam had fogged up the glass door, but I could still make out his tall figure from the other side of the frosted glass. Water streamed down his bare skin and matted his black hair so that it hung down to the nape of his neck.

 

I hadn't meant to stare, but then Luka was turning around, the corner of his lips twisting up in a smirk. "See something you like?"

 

If only I had nodded yes instead of turning around with an embarrassed flush. If only I had quickly stripped out of my clothes teeth brushing be damned, and opened the incessantly creaky door. If only I had pressed myself along the broad expanse of his back, hugging him tightly under the searing hot water.

 

He always likes his showers too hot.

 

I moan, more loudly this time, and start to move my hand faster.

 

I imagine Luka shoving me up against the cold, stone tiles, one hand fisting my hair and the other twisting my arm behind my back, his cock already hard and pressing against my entrance.

 

He pushes in without warning or preparation, and I cry out in surprise, but trail off in a moan as he bottoms out. The stretch is a little painful, but bearable. Luka waits for me to get used to his size, listening for the telltale sign of my breathing evening out as he mouths along my shoulder.

 

He starts slowly, with shallow thrusts and lazy caresses, hands roaming over my chest, playing with a nipple. He pinches and pulls, and I squirm on him cock, eager for more.

 

 "Faster…" I moan in the empty room, but in my head I imagine Luka chuckling in my ear.

 

"So eager," he breathes, but starts to move faster and harder..

 

I labor to draw breath, feeling dizzy in the steamy bathroom with Luka's large body draped over mine. We've barely started, yet I already feel on edge. I know that there's going to be a lingering red mark on my cheek from where I'm pressed up against the hard tile.

 

Back in reality, my hips buck up off the bed as I desperately try to fist myself to completion. But no matter how hard I try to focus on the fantasy, the heat, I never get there.

 

Finally, I give up, falling back onto the sheets panting, aching, my cock still leaking precome. My hole feels empty. I can practically feel it twitch hungrily at the thought of Luka's cock, but I refuse to acknowledge the truth.

 

If I'm a man - and I am - then I don't need to get ass fucked just to get off.

 

But just in case, I try anyways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I feel a surge of arousal, and move my hand faster, trying to chase that pleasurable feeling.

 

With my face pressed into a pillow and my ass up in the air, I can almost imagine it's Luka behind me instead of my own hand, but my clumsy fingers are nothing like his strong and sure ones. It's not my fault I suck at fingering myself. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've done it myself, and even then it was never for the purpose of actually getting off.

 

I twist my fingers, desperately trying to hit my prostate. I'm so wound up, so ready to burst, but I can't. No matter how I tug at my cock, no matter how I rut back against my hand, I just can't get the angle right.

 

I moan brokenly, frustrated, as the feeling slowly fades, and I'm left with an emptiness in my chest and an uncomfortable chaffing from after the saliva on my fingers dried. I'm so close, just a hairsbreadth from the edge. All I need is a little push, a little more. I need something bigger, something _more_ than just my fingers.

 

Gabe has a whole selection of toys to choose from, but it's not like I can just ring his doorbell and ask for a dildo. Especially after I told him to fuck off. On the other hand, Luka is more vanilla. As in, there's nothing silicon and phallic shaped in our apartment.

 

With a defeated sigh, I pull my fingers out and wipe the excess lube on the sheets. It's too late to salvage them anyways since there's already a mess of precome on them.

 

Isn't there anything I can use?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment because it would really make my day! The last part of this chapter is just a teaser of what's coming up next time, so stick around! I don't want to make any promises, but I try to get a new chapter out every 2 months. Thanks for reading :)


	8. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, almost forgot to update.

_"I hate life."_ It's the first thought I have in the morning as I lay in bed all alone. _"I really, really hate life,"_ I think as I open the curtains and look down upon the tiny ants running about on the way to work, many of whom likely consider their dog dying as their most painful memory.

 

I had a dog once, and I guess I was pretty sad when it died, especially about the part where Gabe made me shoot it, but I'd much rather think about poor Mr. Fluffy's limp and bleeding form than some of the other things I've done.

 

Anyways.

 

I never figured out what the Calculus homework was, so I didn't do it. Mr. Kirk is still onto me, which is bad for my heart, although the events at the ballpark have at least put some distance between us. And Matt made a friend, not that I care. But I kind of do. What if he tells his friend I'm an assassin? What if his friend tells the whole school? It seems like lately I can't stop tallying up my misfortunes. Maybe I should try to be more positive.

 

For example, at least I got off last night. I'm a little ashamed of the memory, but the end justifies the means, right? I still hate life, and I'll never again resort to such desperate measures, but I also feel less stressed, so whatever happened last night is in the past. I'm the only one who knows about it and that's not going to change anytime soon.

 

Today, at the school's entrance, I see Matt instead of Lana. He's wearing an ungodly shade of yellow and pink plaid, looking like a walking lemonade stand. It makes me cringe on the inside, and also a little bit on the outside. "Nice shirt," I can't help but remark as I walk past him.

 

Matt narrows his eyes and pinches his lips together, looking hurt. "So what? Plaid never killed anyone."

 

Well…

 

At my expression, Matt's jaw drops. "You didn't," he hisses accusingly.

 

Damn. If even Matt can tell what I'm thinking, then I'm becoming way too readable. When did my guard drop so low? "It was an accident," I say in my defense just as Lana comes running up from behind us, the sound of her heels clicking distinctively on the concrete. Impractical, but still distinctive.

 

"Kyle!" she squeals, yesterday's question seemingly forgotten, then casts a disparaging glance at Matt. "And nerd."

 

"It could've been avoided if only he wasn't wearing plaid," I shrug. Do I feel guilty? I did at the time. Definitely at the time. "See ya."

 

"You're a monster!" shouts Matt as Lana drags me off, and his voice is just loud enough to irritate me. So what if I'm a monster? He doesn't have to announce it to the world.

 

"Don't listen to him," sniffs Lana, clinging tighter to me. "You're not a monster."

 

I look down at her, taking in her flawless makeup, hardened gaze, and innocent pout. If only she knew. "Thanks." But I can't escape a nagging feeling that something about her is different today.

 

At that moment, it hits me: I care too much. I'm becoming too friendly with my friends, and it's making me soft, lowering my guard. I have to be careful around them or else-

 

I falter in my step as the memory washes over me - the sickening realization, the heart stopping fear, the sterile white hospital room and broken shadow in the doorway.

 

Fuck. This is why I don't like to think about the past. I swallow with difficulty, and try to force the memory away, instead focusing on Luka.

 

Luka, whose arms I wake up in nearly every morning.

 

Luka, who ruffles my hair, kisses me softly, and sometimes makes me pancakes for breakfast in that embarrassing, yellow apron.

 

Luka, who held my hand in his big, warm one and whose heart thumps steadily in his broad  chest.

 

That night is definitely going to be my go-to memory. I miss him so much.

 

Lana tentatively reaches out and touches my cheek. "Kyle?" She knows to an extent how I struggle with my memories. She knows that I don't just recall them, that I live them all over again - the sounds, the smells, the emotions - and she probably knows I still feel guilty about Lara, but she doesn't know the half of it.

 

That's okay though. She's just a normal girl - albeit with a few more problems than most - and the less she knows, the better.

 

In a matter of minutes, I'm once again faced with the annoying problem know as "Matt". He's everywhere, and as it turns out, his new friend's locker is right next to mine.

 

The worst part is that it's probably a coincidence. I mean, Matt can't make a friend naturally, much less on purpose. He's the type that gets worse at socializing the harder he tries, so there's no way he could've intentionally befriended the person with the locker next to mine.

 

And if I thought Matt moving into my Calculus class was bad, it gets worse when my teacher makes an announcement. "This year our school is trying something called project based learning. Instead of listening to me lecture everyday, you're going to be exploring our objectives through semester long projects. You're going to be working in partners, so I want you guys to look to your right and look to your left."

 

Reluctantly, I look to my right, and see Matt, pointedly looking to his left, to me. Then I look to my left at the welcoming sight of an empty desk.

 

"Your partner will be one of the two people you just looked at."

 

I raise my hand immediately. There's no way I can work with a walking lemonade stand on a semester long project, much less Matt who would be incessantly nosey about things he really shouldn't be concerning himself with. "Sir, can I work the the 'person' on my left?"

 

But Mr. Mitchell only fixes me with disappointed look that carries the weight of a thousand tsks, like he expects me to get along better with my classmates, and doesn't answer.

 

I put my hand down, but silently resolve to get out of this. This is the problem I started all those months ago when I was too lazy to get rid of a seemingly harmless witness to my crimes, and it's finally come down to the endgame. I _refuse_ to lose now by giving Matt an entire semester to sniff around my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But Matt isn't the only person making my life difficult.

 

Let me explain.

 

There's a cocky bastard in varsity track this year by the name of Greyson Summers who happens to be the son of a senator, who in turn happens to be trying to clean up organized crime in Chicago. Still, Greyson can't choose his father any more than I can choose my jobs, so I try to be civil with him even though just a whiff of his rank cologne stinking up the locker room has me itching to slash his throat open, and also because Lance says that a good team dynamic is crucial for winning, yet my patience with Greyson runs out a mere week into the school year when an injured bird is found on the track.

 

The team members gather around it even as Lance tries to get them to back away and give the small bird some space. "If we get too close to it, its mother won't want it back!" he says, throwing an arm out as if to protect it.

 

Now, I don't know much about birds, but I'm pretty sure that's not how it works. Just to humor him though, I urge our teammates to step back.

 

With a sigh, we all collectively shuffle back three steps, and someone jokingly says, "I bet its mother abandoned it on the track," which receives a few chuckles here and there.

 

But then Greyson, that goddamn son of a bitch, adds in his (arguably) nasally voice, "Just like Kyle's mom."

 

Everyone falls silent.

 

"What?" I ask, feeling a numbness settle over my mind.

 

"Oh, come on," Greyson sneers, "Your mom didn't want you either, but at least she got a few bucks for selling you to the mafia."

 

" _What?"_

 

"There's no point in playing dumb. Everyone knows Valenti International is just a front for the mafia."

 

That isn't what I meant when I asked 'what', but I'm so stunned that I can't speak. For a long, stretched out moment, I don't even know how to process his words. It's common knowledge that I'm 'adopted', but no one really mentions it except in passing, and no one ever - for any reason - mentions the mafia.

 

_Of course Valenti International is a front for the mafia, but that doesn't make it okay to talk about._

 

_How dare he insult my mother like that?_

 

_She very much wanted me, she definitely didn't abandon me, and she certainly didn't earn any money from it._

 

_How dare he insult my mother like that?!_

 

_Does Greyson think his dad is going to dig him out of every hole he blabs himself into?_

 

_How dare he insult my mother like that._

 

My thoughts run around in no particular order, and every passing moment is a struggle to not punch his lights out. I know that I should brush off his comment, pretend like it doesn't affect me, but it does. It does so much more than it should.

 

It's only natural for people to think my mother abandoned me. After all, it's not like I can tell them I was kidnapped by my psychotic cousin when I was five years old and trained to be a prostitute, but now work as an assassin, and would really appreciate it if nobody mentioned my mother, who I can barely remember. Although I'll always be haunted by every moment of every day of the past seven years, everything before that is just a blur, especially my memories of my family, which is why when I finally process that Greyson just made a joke about my mother, whose dear memory I struggle desperately to clutch onto, I ball up my fist, clench my teeth, and-

 

"Kyle!" Lance is gripping my shoulder tightly, pulling me away from Greyson. "Don't do it, bro. That bastard isn't worth a suspension."

 

 _"Yes, he is,"_ a voice in my mind tells me. " _He's worth a suspension and much, much more."_ But then the coach is jogging up to the us, blowing his whistle and yelling at us to get a move on, and the baby bird suddenly takes flight, not as injured as Lance had originally believed. With no other reason to dawdle on the track, we disperse to start warming up.

 

But I'll get my revenge a thousand times over. I hate his type the most: the type that runs his mouth without knowing what he's talking about. And plus, he has terrible taste in cologne.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After a quick shower, I meet up with Lana outside the gym and head to lunch even though it's barely 10:30. That's A lunch for you.

 

As soon as I see her, I'm struck again by a sense that she looks different today. Recalling yesterday and the past few times I've seen her, I know that she's still wearing the same red lipstick she's been onto recently, and using the same shade of eyeshadow. Her hair is still as blonde as ever, still as straight as straight can be. She hasn't had any noticeable plastic surgery in the past twenty-four hours, or gotten new boobs- Actually…

 

No, same old 32Bs.

 

Everything checks out. Maybe I'm just imagining it. Besides, I shouldn't care if she looks a little different anyways. We're both better off that way.

 

"Uh… Kyle?" Lana interrupts my thoughts, waving a hand in front of my face.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"About yesterday… I'm…" She chews her lips nervously, looking away. "I'm sorry I asked if you were gay. I just wanted to know why you're not interested in me, and didn't mean to upset you."

 

"You didn't up-"

 

"And I totally caught you looking at my boobs," she continues, more like her usual, annoying self. "But you should know that your window of opportunity has passed. I've fallen in love."

 

"I wasn't looking at- You what?!"

 

"I've fallen in love," Lana declares matter-of-factly, then sighs, smiling just a little. "He's so dreamy…"

 

I rub my temples, unable to wrap my mind around this new development. "With who?" I ask, a painfully cliché realization coming upon me. I don't believe it. No one really glows when they're in love; this can't possibly be the reason why she looks different.

 

"His name is Greyson. Greyson Summers…"

 

And if my jaw drops just a little… Well, you really can't fault me.

 

"I don't approve of this," I say immediately, determined to stop this train from becoming a smoldering pile of iron. "You do not love Greyson Summers because he is an asshole. I let you skip class and sleep around, even though Lara would have an aneurysm, but this is absolutely not okay, and if you try some kind of Romeo and Juliet relationship behind my back, I will murder him in his sleep. Capisce?"

 

"No. You're not my mom," Lana says sharply. "You can't tell me what to do. Greyson and I are in love, and we're going to get married, and have babies no matter what you think. The principal would have an aneurysm if he heard you talking about murder, and just please stop mentioning Lara!" She ends in a shout, but I've already stopped listening.

 

Greyson 'loves' her back?! I think _I'm_ going to have an aneurysm. I take a deep breath and let out a long exhale. "You're right," I say as calmly as I can. "I'm not your mother. I'm practically your brother, and bros before hoes, right? Anyone but Greyson, Lana, please."

 

Now, it might sound like I'm so desperate that I've resorted to begging, but in reality I'm taking a tactical approach to persuading her to fall in love with someone else. Teenage girls are complicated creatures who I don't fully understand, but I at least know that they're similar to middle-aged men in the sense that they both like to feel in control of their lives. And I also know that middle-aged men like it when I beg. It makes them more amenable to suggestions such as, "Please don't fuck me dry." Or, "Please come in my mouth, not my hair."

 

But Lana just huffs an angry breath of air and refuses to talk to me for the rest of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't think school has ever been this exhausting.

 

As soon as I get home, I collapse onto the bed like I did yesterday. I should probably get to the office, but it's not like the numbers are going to run off the page. It'll be okay if I take a short nap first.

 

So I set my alarm for half an hour.

 

One hour and then some later, I'm scrambling around the bathroom trying to brush my hair and teeth at the same time while leaning awkwardly over the toilet to get my piss in the pot. Take my word for it: it's all about the angle.

 

There's negligible spillage - nothing a little toilet paper can't clean up - and within ten minutes of stumbling out of bed, I've freshened up, straightened out the wrinkles from my shirt, and fixed the sheets.

 

Just before I close the bedroom door behind me, I hear the lock to the front door turning, and my heart does a flip in my chest. It could either be Gabe here to ruin my life more than he already has, or it could be Luka home early.

 

Do I dare to hope?

 

I skid to a halt at the end of the front hallway just in time to see the door open and Luka step through. Immediately, I run towards him and throw my arms around his neck, almost bursting with exuberance.

 

"I missed you!" I practically sob into his shoulder, feeling my eyes tearing up. Would it be okay to ask him to fuck me into next week immediately after he returns home, or should I wait a little? "It's been awful without you."

 

Luka chuckles, patting me soothingly on the head. "There, there. I'm home now."

 

Now that he's actually here, in the flesh, I finally realize how much I missed him. When he was gone, it was just a vague ache, but now that I can touch him and smell him and hug him tightly, I know there's nothing better in the world than being with Luka. "It was awful…" I say again.

 

Luka lets me cling to for some minutes, but finally gently pries my arms from his neck, and gives me a peck on the nose. "I'm starving," he declares with a small smile, "What do you want to eat?"

 

"Anything is fine," I reply following him into the kitchen.

 

"How about salad?" asks Luka."I feel like I haven't eaten a vegetable in forever." He walks around the bar, setting his jacket atop the counter on the way while I pull out the bar stool and prop my chin on my hands.

 

His jacket obviously doesn't belong on the kitchen counter, but I only shrug, "Sure," with a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth that I can't seem to suppress, too happy to care about either his jacket or dinner or even work.

 

Luka rummages through the fridge, looking for useable ingredients. "We have lettuce, tomatoes, a few carrots, radishes, a cucumber-"

 

"Not the cucumber!" My blood suddenly goes cold, heart beats faster.

 

"Why not?" asks Luka, turning to look at me with the long and thick vegetable in hand.

 

I cringe, and rush to take it from him. "No reason." I say, grabbing one rounded end, noting the drop of moisture on its bulbous head, and tugging, but Luka refuses to let go.

 

"What's wrong with the cucumber?"

 

"Nothing." I answer, feeling sweat beading along my forehead, all the while stubbornly holding onto the tapered end - smooth, and hard, and thick, and unfortunately edible. "It just looks a little under the weather."

 

Luka looks at it quizzically. "It looks fine," he sighs, jerking it out of my hands.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

 

"What's wrong?" he asks again. "You can tell me anything, Kyle."

 

Why did I put it back!?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We eat it.

 

To be honest, I've done kinkier things, but each bite is hard to swallow nonetheless. At least Luka doesn't taste anything funny.

 

But seriously. Why did I put it back?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 I watch the light on the elevator slowly tick away - _49, 48, 47_ \- as I hum happily. Even that salad can't ruin the exuberance I feel at Luka's return. I usually like my job, but I'm kind of annoyed it's taking me away from him so soon. I should've done my work earlier instead of taking a nap, but whatever. I'll finish up quickly and then I can spend the rest of the day with Luka. Maybe we can even continue where we left off last week.

 

Since closing is finished, it'll be less busy than it was last week. All I have to do is file away those papers on my desk, and… Oh right, we have to clean out Mr. Kirk's desk, since he's blown his cover and can't come back.

 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open with a mechanical hiss. Maybe there's a bounce in my step as I head towards my desk, and maybe my smile is just a bit wider than usual when I greet Erik even though I'm over two hours late, but none of it matters as soon as I see Mr. Kirk typing away at his desk like usual.

 

I can practically feel the smile sliding off my face.

 

"What the fuck are you doing here!?" I hiss, storming over. Mr. Kirk looks up, almost like he's surprised that I'm surprised. "I know you're a cop! Even if you deny it, I know you are! Why the fuck are you back?!"

 

Maybe I should have a little more discretion when choosing an appropriate place to discuss secret matters, but it's past six and almost everyone has gone home, so sue me if I attracted a pair or two of curious eyes.

 

Mr. Kirk pulls me into the side hallway, away from the cubicles. "Kyle," he says calmly, putting a hand on my shoulder, "If you wanted to turn me in to Luka or Gabriel, then you could've already. I _know_ that you're a good person, and I'm back because I want to help you."

 

I jerk away from him, disbelief all over my expression and stirring inside me. Is that really what he thinks?! "Mr. Kirk, I am a terrible person, I don't need your help, and the only reason why I haven't told Luka you're a cop is because _he's_ the one who told _me._ "

 

That, at least, seems to get Mr. Kirk's attention. "What?!" He glances around with a newfound look of fear. "How long has he known?! How long have you known?!"

 

"From the beginning," I reply dryly. I guess I'm a better actor than I thought, if my shitty façade really fooled him. "Listen, you need to get out of here. For all intents and purposes, this is just the accounting sector of a shipping company, and I'm just an part-timer. Nothing bad will happen to you, or Matt, or your wife, as long as you leave quietly."

 

Finally, I think, looking at his stricken face, I'll be rid of him. Maybe I enjoyed his company sometimes, and maybe he's been really nice to me, almost like a father, but at the end of the day, he's still a cop, and he can still put me away for life.

 

"I… I can't."

 

…

 

…

 

"What?"

 

Mr. Kirk looks so conflicted, but I can see the resolve slowly coming together in his expression. "I'm not here just for you," he confides in a low whisper, "I'm also investigating a certain drug."

 

I pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to cope with what's going on. He's a homicide detective, but he's investigating drugs? This is almost as weird as Gompurs, the CEO of a security firm, importing drugs, or dealing drugs, or whatever he's doing. I don't even know. "Is it secretly poisonous?" I ask tiredly.

 

"Not exactly. It was developed to treat a very rare disease, but it also causes a euphoric high when taken in larger doses, and was banned due to its highly addictive nature, so now it's being used in certain circles as a low-risk, high-price alternative to crack cocaine," says Mr. Kirk, almost like he's had that spiel prepared before-hand. "Of course, it's still a dangerousness  substance, but the effects take longer to manifest.

 

"So why are you investigating here?"

 

"Because I need your help," answers Mr. Kirk with a very serious expression.

 

The urge to face palm is strong, but I somehow manage to stave it off, and instead settle for a long, drawn out sigh. Just when I thought things were looking up, they get worse. Just when I thought I was getting out of this shit hole of a situation, I fall in deeper.

 

Fuck you too, universe.

 

With love, Kyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to update for a while, but I'll try to get another chapter out by November. Things will be picking up next chapter and I also foresee some smut. I'll try my best to make it as explicit and porny as possible, so give me some time :)
> 
> As always, thank you to hix for proofreading!
> 
> Also, please leave a comment! Comments are as good as a hundred bucks!


	9. Hound in Shining Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, remember me? I'm the author. I was planning on having this out by November, but then I tripped and fell over some mushrooms, and when I woke up, it was already January! Can you believe it? I'm telling you, it was those mushrooms' fault - they're dangerous!
> 
> Haha just kidding. I don't have an excuse. Sorry it took so long… I've read other authors claim that reader comments help motivate them to write, and while I've always treasured each and every comment from you guys, whether I remembered to reply or not, they didn't really affect how much I wrote. But I was kind of looking through my AO3 profile a couple weeks ago to familiarize myself with it - something I never quite got around to - when I stumbled upon my inbox where I read all the comments that I've received up until this point and… how do I say this?
> 
> I felt pretty motivated.
> 
> I had most of this chapter written some months ago, but the smut was kicking me in the ass. Reading your comments is what gave me the motivation to finish the darn chapter, so I just want to say thank you guys so much. Thank you, to those of you who took the time to write kind words to me and/or bothered to leave kudos (I get the feeling some of them were pity kudos for effort, but I love them all the same.) Thank you, to those of you who thought nice thoughts after reading my work, but, for some absolutely unfathomable reason, didn't leave a comment or kudos. (The 'unfathomable' part is sarcasm. As a confessed hypocrite on occasion, I entirely understand) Even if you only thought it in your head, I consider everything received and well cherished :)
> 
> I know that the smut is crap for more than one reason, and I don't want to draw any attention to the error in case it escapes your notice, but I'm so sorry for it. Although it feels cheap to ask for your forgiveness, if you could stick with me, I'll put forth my utmost to improve and provide better quality sexy times ;) 
> 
> The one good thing about taking so long is that I had plenty of time to let the rest of the chapter sit before re-approaching it from a somewhat fresher point of view. Hopefully, you'll find this chapter something of a smoother read than its predecessors. Have I said that before?

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask, voice tinged with anger. "No. A thousand times no."

 

First of all, I'm not a goddamned idiot. Second of all, what would I tell Luka? I got seen on a job by some kid, but decided to let him go because I was too lazy to finish it? Surprise, his dad's a cop! Not only is he investigating me, but a mysterious medicine/drug and now he's asking for my help, and I thought, _"Why not?"_

 

As if. I'd practically be asking for an ass beating if I told him that. Besides, I couldn't help him even if I wanted to. Instead, I march away from the cubicles. Fuck the paperwork. I need to think about this mess I've gotten myself into. If getting his cover blown isn't enough to scare Mr. Kirk away, then what is? Moreover, how can he be so dedicated to his job at the risk of his own life? I'm starting to think this guy is some sort of saint.

 

"Kyle!" Mr. Kirk calls after me, almost pleadingly, "Please, just hear me out!"

 

"No," I seethe, glaring at him while violently jabbing the elevator button. "Get the fuck out of here. You are goddamn fired." Pointing to the elevator door, I tell him frustratedly, "Go undercover for some other company that actually deals in pharmaceuticals. And next time, I recommend you hire an exterminator to spray for pests because there are rats all over the station." The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. "Now, please, just go."

 

"But-"

 

"Go."

 

Mr. Kirk reluctantly step into the elevator, and the doors close on his final, pleading look.

 

I have a feeling he'll be back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Luka is sitting in bed with a book of Sudoku when I get home. His hair hangs in damp locks around his face, and he smiles in acknowledgment as I pass through the bedroom and into the bathroom. "Welcome home," he says.

 

I grunt in response.

 

I go through the motions of my nightly routine, brushing and washing away the thoughts of Mr. Kirk. _"Better things lay ahead,"_ I remind my reflection.

 

True to word, as soon as I step back into the bedroom and see Luka waiting there for me, sitting against the headboard with his legs stretched out and book set aside, thoughts of Mr. Kirk fly out the window and over the Chicago skyline.

 

I crawl up onto the bed and lay my head on Luka's lap, gazing up at him with a soft smile. He strokes a hand through my hair, and I close my eyes, turn my face into him.

 

We stay like that for a long while, until Luka finally asks, "How've you been, kiddo?" The question is quite random, but welcome nonetheless since it breaks the silence and provides a segue to what I really want. Otherwise I would have had to initiate it myself, and that might make me look desperate. Which I'm not… Well, maybe a little… Whatever.

 

How have I been? Lonely, for one. Horny, for two. He left me with a painful case of blue balls and shattered hopes Friday. (And there's that thing with Mr. Kirk, but I try not to think about it on my off time.)

 

I open one eye curiously. "It depends…" I prop myself up on my elbow and reach a coy hand up to palm Luka's cock through his boxers. "Can I?" I ask breathily. "Please?" He typically wears pajama pants to bed, so I take the lack of them as a good sign.

 

"Be my guest." Luka says genially, eyes narrowing, as if he were doing me a favor, even as he cups the back of my head to guide it to the bulge in his shorts.

 

I press my face into the cotton, breathing in the smell of soap and detergent and his underlying musk, and I moan. At this point, I'm bordering more towards desperate than eager, but he doesn't comment, and I try not to think about it. I pull Luka's boxers down, and his cock springs out, not limp but still soft. Rubbing my thumb gently around the head, I mouth along the shaft reverently. "I missed you…" I moan without meaning to, feeling myself grow hard too.

 

Luka chuckles. "You missed me, or my dick?"

 

I look up, both startled and embarrassed. What kind of question is that?! I feel like I pretty much walked right into that one though. Damn, should've kept my mouth shut. I don't deign to answer and lean back down to take his cock into my mouth.

 

But Luka pulls me away by the hair, dragging my head back to look him in the eye. "Ah-ah," he chides, "Answer the question, Kyle."

 

"… Both," I answer reluctantly after a moment of deliberation. The middle route is the safe route, right?

 

Unfortunately, Luka isn't satisfied. "Which one did you miss more?"

 

Asshole. I bite my lip and furrow my brows, afraid of giving the wrong answer. Which one does he want to me to say?  I mean, it'd be pretty insensitive to say I missed his dick more, and it's not like I didn't miss him. But what if it's a trick and he wants me to pick his dick? Or he wants me to talk dirty to him? I feel myself blush harder at the thoughts running through my head. I can't say something like that out loud!

 

Mind made up, I answer quietly, "You…"

 

Luka coos. "Aw, isn't that sweet?" I feel elated at making the right choice until he pats me roughly on the cheek. "Then I guess you'll be okay with just cuddling tonight, won't you?"

 

What? "No!" I exclaim frantically, rescinding my answer. "Your dick! I missed your dick more-"

 

In the blink of an eye, Luka pulls me under him and crashes our mouths together in a rough imitation of a kiss. He pulls away a fraction of an inch, and I can feel his lips curving into a predatory smirk. "There's my little slut," he praises affectionately.

 

From that one line, my breaths come a little harder.

 

Luka sits up, pulls his shirt over his head, and tosses it to the ground somewhere. My heart quite literally skips a beat. Staring at his sculpted chest, I'm reminded of the last time we were in this situation. It did not end well for either me or my dick.

 

Although I'm tempted to touch him, claim him as mine, I refrain. Instead, I lick my thumb and press it against my nipple, rubbing it in slow circles. I shiver at the sensation, sighing with a sultry look, "I'm yours…" Perhaps the opposite approach will yield opposite results?

 

Luka curses under his breath, looking down at me with eyes of want as he strokes his cock to full hardness. "Yeah," he agrees, "You are." Even though his face doesn't betray anything, I swear I can see a dark satisfaction gleaming behind his eyes. "You want this?" he asks, referring to his dick as he comes up to kneel over my chest.

 

I glance down at his curved length held teasingly to my parted lips. He's longer than most of the people I've been with, but of average thickness, and not so much that his length is frightening. In response, I lean forward and take the head into my mouth. I don't have particularly good memories of sucking dick, but I don't mind as much when it's Luka. If anything, it's a means to an end.

 

"F-fuck, babe," groans Luka, taken by surprise. His hips stutter forward, and I open my throat as best as possible. Although I clumsily use my tongue to make it good for him, it mostly consists of me laying back, one hand braced against Luka's waist and the other laying off to the side, and staring up at him while he fucks my throat - he does so slowly, savoring the warm, wet heat.

 

He presses in and out in short strokes, going deeper and deeper each time, each thrust pressing against the sensitive flesh at the back of my throat, until finally his balls press against my chin and he stops, just sits there and stares down at me. I lost my gag reflex before I lost my ability to forget things, but that doesn't make this comfortable either.

 

I try to focus on breathing - in… and out… - but something about our positions makes me feel so vulnerable. He could strangle me like this, lovingly cradle my neck under his two hands, and I wouldn't be able to stop him. Death by asphyxiation while he's balls deep in my throat… My eyes slip shut. I don't know if I'd want to stop him.

 

Apparently Luka is having similar thoughts because he brushes his thumb over my neck, pressing down ever so slightly, massaging the head of his cock through my throat, and I moan. The vibrations make Luka shiver. "You'd let me, wouldn't you?" he asks, almost awestruck. My heart clenches at the tenderness in his voice. Luka begins to pump in and out. He presses down harder and harder until I really can't breathe; until there's a niggling sense of panic in the back of my head, but all I can do is lave messily around his cock and watch him through lidded eyes until my vision grays out at the edges, my mouth goes slack, and I swear there's a halo framing his angelic face.

 

His cock pulses in my mouth, on the verge of spilling, when Luka suddenly pulls out. His grip loosens around my neck.

 

Oxygen rushes into my lungs, nearly hurling me into unconsciousness. Black specks dot my vision. Vaguely, I can feel a thin string of saliva hanging between my lower lip and the head of Luka's cock. I lay there, dazed and panting for breath. Luka pulls away and it snaps.

 

"Turn over," he commands breathlessly. Strange. I was the one getting strangled. "I want to fuck your ass."

 

_"Me too,"_ I think, all too aware of my own raging boner - almost an afterthought compared to the one that was just in front of my face - but I can't seem to make my body cooperate.

 

Luka pats my cheek with a chuckle, urging me to roll over. "C'mon, babe, I'm gonna bust a nut if you keep looking at me like that." He manhandles me onto my stomach and shoves a pillow underneath my hips. I hear a cap pop open. Lube.

 

_"Like what?"_ I wonder belatedly, unable to get my voice to work. Then a slick finger is rubbing circles around my entrance once, twice, and pushes inside. I suck in a sharp breath.

 

"Fuck, you've gotten tighter," curses Luka, impatience coloring his words. He pumps his finger in and out a few times before adding another. It's been a while since I felt a stretch with only two fingers, but it's a good kind of stretch. I wish it would always be this way.

 

On one hand, I'm relieved the cucumber wasn't very thick because tighter is better, or so I've heard, and I want this to be good for Luka. But on the other hand, it means more prep, which I have little patience for.

 

Luka's fingers press teasingly against my prostate, slender, but strong and firm, sure in their path. He evidently derives some pleasure from this - I can imagine the smirk on his face as I rub myself against the pillow and push back against his fingers on his fingers - but there's not nearly enough friction for this to be anything more than frustrating for me. I whine and try to bat Luka's hand away even as I rock back onto it, doing whatever I can to convey I want more without actually using words.

 

He laughs, not unkindly, and drapes himself over my back, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder as his fingers continue in a steady rhythm. "Tell me what you want, Kyle," he whispers against my ear. "Tell me, babe… Don't be shy."

 

"You're cock," I say hoarsely, any previous sense of shame completely gone. "Please…"

 

Before I can even process the embarrassing plea that just came from my mouth, Luka pulls his fingers out and has his dripping cockhead lined up at my entrance, ready to push in, and dammit but I want it so badly. I'm so wet, so open. I cant my hips backwards, trying to take it in, but it slips down, nudging against the back of my balls. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm so empty it hurts.

 

I must be making some sort of whining sounds because Luka shushes me gently as his licks along the shell of my ear, nips at the lobe, tweaks a nipple with one hand and lines himself up again with the other.

 

Finally, he pushes into the warm heat with ease after having loosened me up again with his fingers. I can't even think whether that's a good or a bad thing. All I know is that it feels good. The two of us moan in unison as he slides all the way into me, filling me up. How could I have gone so long without this feeling of bliss, like I'm being made whole again. A vegetable can't compare to the real thing. It's soft, yet hard… hot… thick.

 

By the time his hips come to a stop against the back of my thighs, I'm already on the verge of coming. "Oh god…" I breathe, "Fuck me, please… Fuck me!"

 

Luka pulls back, and I can physically feel the emptiness he leaves behind, then he pushes back in at an excruciatingly slow pace, savoring the slippery drag of my inner walls around his length. He groans, deep and throaty, a quiet " _yeah…_ " exhaled under his breath, but I don't have time for his old man pace. I'm so close, I could come at any moment.

 

"Faster!" I plead, craning my neck around.

 

Luka takes the chance to kiss me, catching my chin with one hand while the other presses bruises into my hip. "Patience," he breathes against my lips. He doesn't wait for permission, instead simply parting my mouth with his tongue and _taking_. He ravages my mouth with the vigor of a starving man, and I moan desperately into the messy kiss, but he's breaking away all too soon, even as I blindly chase the sweet tang of his lips, focusing all his attention on pounding me into the sheets. Vaguely, I can hear him moaning my name over and over, calling me endearments and degrading words mixed as one. I think I'm crying.

 

A hand pins me down by the back of my neck, where my PoD is, pressing hard into the vertebrae there, and my surroundings immediately black out. I can catch glimpses of the sickly yellow strand of my ability out of the corner of my eye piled around the room in wispy knots. I hate it when he does that, the sudden heightening of every sense coupled with the vigorous pace sends every nerve into overdrive, the inescapable pleasure ricocheting throughout my body.

 

Luka pounds into my prostate one more time, and my body seizes up, clenching around his pulsing cock. I writhe against the sheets, chasing the pleasure, the sensation of being loved. He groans low in his throat on a dying breath and comes in my ass.

 

I half wish he'd fuck me all night, until I can't clench up anymore and all his come just spills right back out. I wish he'd fuck me, claim me, until I'm so loose that no one else would ever want me, but no one should anyways because, "I'm yours," I sob, words smothered into the pillow.

 

Even so, Luka hears and he _knows._ "You're mine," he agrees hoarsely, kissing constellations across my back, paying special attention to a set of matching scars on my right shoulder blade. "Forever. You're beautiful. You're perfect, Kyle. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle…" If I wasn't crying before, I sure as hell am now. How can he love this filthy body of mine?

 

He collapses on top of me, hand easing up on the back of my neck so that my regular vision returns, trapping me underneath his large frame, yet all I can think about is how warm I am. The bedside lamp casts a warm glow over us. The sheets are damp, but warmed by our body heat. Luka's bare skin like a heater pressed against my back. Even his hot load in my stomach warms me up from the inside. Most of all, having Luka right here with me, a soft smile nuzzling my neck, makes my chest feel warm and fuzzy.

 

We should probably get cleaned up, but the two of us end up dozing off like that, Luka on top of me with the head of his soft cock still lodged in me. For the first time in a while, I feel content.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning , I shower, pull on a white T-shirt, and examine my neck in the mirror. The fading ring of bruises resemble a collar. It'll probably fade by noon, but I wrap the scarf Luka got for me around my neck and, worst comes to worst, I'll skip track.

 

Since I have a little extra time after eating my customary bowl of cereal, I make pancakes for Luka, humming to myself all the while. Even though they turn out a little burnt on one side, they're nice and fluffy on the other. I place them golden side up on the breakfast table with a jar of honey and a glass of milk on the side before grabbing my backpack. Finally, just before leaving, I pop back in the bedroom to kiss Luka goodbye. He opens one, sleepy eye and ruffles the hair I somehow managed to tame earlier, laughing when I pull away with a frown and saying I look cuter this way.

 

I don't try to comb it down again.

 

The chilly, morning air is crisp, and the sun is peeking above the horizon, shining on the frosty sidewalk just right. The walk to school is a long one. I usually take the L, but I don't mind walking today. I feel like I'm on top of the world, like I could sprint the whole way with my backpack. Of course, Gabe has to ruin it.

 

A black car pulls up along the curb, and the window rolls down, revealing a muscular man with short black hair. As soon as I see him, I start walking faster and pretend to not notice it, but the car keeps following me. Hard as I try, I can't seem to lose him in the morning traffic. Talk about stranger danger. Except I know him.

 

"Kyle!" He calls out, attracting the curious glances of onlookers, "You can't run forever! Be a good boy and get over here!"

 

I scowl, but recognize the threat underlying his words and reluctantly trudge over to the car. At least he's not making me get in. "What?" I ask sourly, wanting to get this over with quickly. If it were Luka, I'd claim that I'm going to be late to school, and he'd hurriedly send me off, but that excuse doesn't cut it with Gabe. In fact, he'd probably recommend I drop out entirely.

 

Frederick Douglass equated education with freedom. Gabe certainly seems to agree. He's opposed me going to school from the get-go, but Luka convinced him to let me finish high school at the very least. It's pretty ironic, considering Luka barely made it to graduation while Gabe got a PhD in pharmacy.

 

"You're going to be eighteen soon."

 

He pauses, looking to me, and I eye him critically - I wouldn't call it 'soon'. "In August. So what?" I try to sound indifferent, but truthfully I can't wait to be legally emancipated from him. Biologically, we're cousins, but as far as the law is concerned, he's my adopted father. Honestly, though, with a seventeen year age gap, he's practically old enough to be my father…

 

 It's complicated.

 

"I thought you might like to know that I'm applying for your guardianship."

 

I stare back at him, not comprehending his words. "… My what?" This is the most random thing he's ever said to me. What even is a guardianship? Isn't he already my guardian?

 

"That's all." He smiles, "Have a good day at school." The window rolls up and the car pulls away, leaving me confused and alone.

 

"Fuck you…" I mutter under my breath as I continue walking. I'm inclined to push his words to the back of my mind, but I can't help wondering what he means by guardianship, so I pull out my phone to search it up.

 

_A "guardian" is someone who is chosen or appointed to make legal decisions for another person who is unable to make those decisions on their own. Guardianship is often over a child or an individual who has become incapacitated through age or disability._

 

I scoff. That doesn't apply to me at all. What's more, it seems that the process to acquire a guardianship is long, difficult, and expensive. I wonder if this is even what Gabe meant by guardianship until, that is, I scroll down and see a subsection for guardianship of carriers.

 

_In the case of a carrier, guardianship may be granted to a non-carrier as long as mental or emotional instability affecting control over the carrier's ability is proven. Carriers with a hypersensitive point of discharge may also be considered unstable._

 

The way the article casually considers carriers with a hypersensitive PoD as unstable gnaws at me. It's a genetic condition, for crying out loud! But it's undeniable. That… That actually sounds a bit like me. Both parts. A pit of anxiety grows in my stomach as I read further down.

 

Unlike a normal guardianship, the relation between a carrier and their guardian sounds more like that of a slave and master. In fact, the amount of rights given up by a carrier to their guardian is downright concerning. But that can't be right… right?

 

Wouldn't something like this be covered in our ability classes? Did I sleep through it? Is no one protesting this flagrant abuse of human rights? Why has no one mentioned that a guardianship is a distinct possibility for carrier who can't control their ability? _I'm_ a carrier who sometimes can't control my ability. Has no one thought to inform me I could become a slave to some normal person?

 

So many questions, so few answers. I spend the rest of my walk researching carrier guardianship.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I learned a lot about guardianship in general on the roughly hour long walk to school. I'm usually good at compartmentalization, but for some reason unpleasant thoughts about guardianships keep resurfacing in my mind no matter how hard I try to keep them at bay.

 

They've come back to haunt me while I'm on the way to lunch with Lana when a noisy crowd in front of the cafeteria distracts me.

 

"What's going on?" she asks.

 

I shrug. Who knows? Probably some jock beating on a poor, defenseless underclassman. "Let's go," I say, trying to cut through the crowd, even as Lana hops up and down to see to the center of the ruckus. I make it a few steps before looking back at Lana only to find that she's headed straight for the eye of the hurricane, so the speak, shoving people out of her way left and right.

 

"Greyson!" she shouts, and I already know this can't be good. I reluctantly follow her, my feet dragging with every step. I should really just go get lunch while the lines are short.

 

I don't quite make it to the front, but I can see Lana through the gaps on the crowd. At first, I'm just relieved to have found her, but quickly realize that my hunch was correct: it is a jock beating on a poor, defenseless underclassman. To be precise, it's Greyson beating the shit out of Matt.

 

"Greyson, stop!" cries Lana, looking down in horror at Matt who's coughing desperately on the ground, bleeding from his nose and mouth and clutching his stomach in pain.

 

"Babe, it's okay," reassures Greyson. He reaches down and pulls Matt up by his curly blonde hair, winding back his other fist to punch him again, but Lana grabs his bicep with both hands.

 

"Seriously! What if you get suspended?"

 

"I said… It's okay!" Greyson shakes her off roughly with an angry snarl, almost hitting her in the face.

 

Thrown off balance, Lana tips back precariously on the pointy heels she prides herself on. I watch in slow motion as, instead of catching her, the crowd parts like the Red Sea for Moses, and Lana falls backwards, arms flailing wildly. I try to push through the bodies, but keep getting pushed back. She squeaks loudly as she lands on her ass, and it would've been funny if it stopped there, but it doesn't. Her momentum propels her back in one fluid motion, and her head hits the tile floor with a painful thunk.

 

Greyson, busy punching the living daylights out of Matt, is deaf to the collective gasp of his onlookers.

 

I can't help but think that humans are monsters. And they don't even know it. They could have caught her, but they let her fall. They gasp as if they're worried, but no one moves to help her. At the end of the day though, it was Greyson who pushed her.

 

Rage burns in my chest, my vision blacks out on the edges, and power thrums through my veins. I can feel my ability surging forward - my eyes must be flashing yellow - but I somehow manage to stave it off. I shove through the crowd with renewed vigor. Other students glare at me as I push them aside roughly, but their voices are drowned out by the buzzing anger in my head.

 

"Hey." From behind, I put my hand on Greyson's shoulder, diverting his attention from Matt. The moment he turns around, I hit him with a nasty right hook. Maybe my knuckles crack, maybe it's his face. Maybe it's both. Regardless, there's a sickening crunch of bone, and then the hallway is completely silent, a sharp contrast from the loud cheering and profanity just before.

 

While Greyson is still reeling from the blow, I casually kick his feet out from under him with a quick swipe of my leg. I watch him fall much in the same way I did Lana, but he manages to catch himself with his hand, although his wrist twists painfully on impact.

 

I click my tongue, wishing he hit his head like Lana, and watch, face void of expression, as Greyson struggles to his feet with a pained groan, cradling his cheek in one hand and clutching his other hand to his chest.

 

My ability has receded. My breathing and sight are under control. Now, there are so many options... Should I grab him by the hair and knee him in the face? Should I kick him until he falls to the ground then crush every bone in his hand under my heel? Or should I step on his face until I hear something important crack? Even better, why pick one when I can do them all?

 

Greyson just manages to stand upright when I grab a fistful of his hair in each hand and bring my knee up to meet his face halfway. He staggers backwards with a scream, but doesn't fall.

 

Shame, that's no fun is it?

 

I take a step forward, angle my body slightly to the side, and take a well-aimed roundhouse kick to the back of Greyson's head.

 

He goes down like a shot.

 

Much better.

 

Thinking back, I really resented Gabe for making me learn self-defense, but now I realize it's actually pretty handy, despite this being less defense and more offense. Something about the way Greyson just… dropped… It was so gratifying, as if all those early mornings and late nights I spent alone with Gabe in the gym finally paid off.

 

The seconds tick by, and Greyson continues to lay on the floor, unmoving. The crowd begins to murmur, probably worried I killed him. On one hand, I hope he's dead because that would mean one nuisance off my back, but on the other hand, I'd be convicted for murder, and the thought that Greyson of all people as the one who ended up getting me caught would irrevocably damage my ego.

 

Which is why I have to make sure he's still alive.

 

So I kick him.

 

Gentler than before and just once in the stomach. Greyson immediately shows some sign of life, groaning and dragging his arms up to protect himself, which means he's okay.

 

It felt good, like squeezing a stress ball, but an interactive one that makes noise in accordance with how much stress is being unleashed. And, boy, Gabe and his guardianship business makes me stressed. So I kick him again.

 

Once, for my mom.

 

Twice, for Lana.

 

Again, because I hate his cologne

 

And again, just for the heck of it.

 

He curls in on himself, trying pitifully to shield his body with his hands, whimpering on the ground like a fucking weakling because that's what he is. "P-please…" he finally begs, voice thick with tears, "Stop-p… Please…"

 

I take that as an invitation to step on his hand. "Hm… What's the right response to that again?" I ponder out loud. "Oh right, 'Babe, it's okay' and then…" I grind my heel down on his fingers, feeling them break underneath my foot, drunk on power. "A nasty fall. But you've already done that, haven't you?"

 

Greyson screams his reply, an agonized, ear-piercing shriek that makes me smile on the inside.

 

I crouch down to get a better look Greyson's tear-streaked, blood-stained face - an image I can archive in my memories as one of the most satisfying moments of my life. It's almost as good as when the accounts for a particular month fall into place like well oiled cogs in a trusty machine or when a tough job goes off without a hitch.

 

Suddenly, inspiration strikes.

 

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my trigger: a butterfly knife. Typically, students aren't supposed to carry weapons to school, but the school supply list for all Somatic classes does say 'trigger', so there's a bit of leeway.

 

I hold it out for Greyson to see, flicking it open in a practiced motion. Although my ability strains to emerge again, I push it back more easily this time now that I've gotten a reign on my emotions. Ever so carefully, I drag the tip of the blade along his cheek, tenderly, almost like a lover's caress, then ask, "Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?"

 

His eyes widen in fear and his lips tremble. He whimpers, shaking his head minutely, pleading for me to stop.

 

Just looking at his ugly face for an extended period of time makes my hatred spike, and I raise the knife, ready to carve a nice design into his freckled skin when suddenly someone bursts through the crowd.

 

"Kyle! Holy shit!" yells Lance, roughly dragging my away from Greyson by the shoulders. "Are you insane?! You'll be lucky to be expelled!"

 

I twist around violently, trying to pull myself out of his grip, but he just throws me to the ground, scattering the crowd. My knife skitters off to the side. Although I manage to cushion the fall with my elbows and only slide back several feet or so, the impact jars me out of my murderous rage. Between seething breaths, it suddenly occurs to me that maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

 

Lance is right: I'll be lucky to get expelled. Greyson's dad is going to be pissed as hell, especially because it's me. To the side, I see the school nurse checking on Lana who's out cold, and the campus security are running up to the scene. I should've just carried her to the nurse's office or something instead of taking my anger out on Greyson. Not to mention, more than Senator Summers (former Prosecutor Summers now that I think about it) is going to be pissed, I'll never hear the end of this from Gabe.

 

I pick myself up and dust the dirt from my jeans just as two security officers jog up. They approach me cautiously, like I could go off at any moment, which, I suppose, I could. But I won't. I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender, walking straight through them. "I'll see myself to the principal's office," I mutter.

 

The long walk across the school gives me time to cool my head. No one spares me a second thought, but once word gets out, they'll never  stop staring.

 

The more time passes, the more I realize what a huge mistake I made. I can't believe I slipped up like that. I should be making my way through school with my head down, not beating up my teammate, the son of a senator, in front of half the school. But in the heat of the moment, all I could think about was how much I hated him.

 

"Kyle! Hey! Kyle!"

 

I turn around and find Matt jogging towards me, one hand waving wildly in the air and the other clutching a wad of tissues to his nose. I roll my eyes, but stop anyways. "What?" So much for not attracting attention. Now everyone is staring at him and me.

 

"I- I just…" Matt starts and stops, fumbling over his words until he finally spits out, "Thank you! Er- Thanks for… for what you did back there." He smiles shyly under the tissue. I can't imagine what he's smiling about, after the way he got his ass handed to him.

 

"It wasn't for you," I reply coldly, turning my back to him.

 

Lance texts me that Lana is fine, just unconscious, and will likely wake up with a concussion. That bit of information is the only source of comfort I have as I wait for the principal to see me since he's in a meeting presently. The desk lady informs me that my emergency contact has been called; apparently my primary contact is also in a meeting. She won't, however, tell me _who_ my emergency contact is, dourly instructing me to sit quietly until he arrives.

 

Not even five minutes later, the office doors burst open and Luka storms in with the principal hot on his heels. I wonder how he got here so quickly.

 

"Up. Now." snaps Luka, jerking me to my feet by the arm in a crushing grip. My heart sinks even lower. He hasn't been this angry in a while. I'm so screwed.

 

"M-mr. Valenti…" The principal stutters to a stop when Luka casts a withering glare at him, but then somehow finds the courage to continue. "M-maybe we should discuss this in m-my office first?"

 

"I have a flight to catch in an hour," growls Luka, clearly straining to remain civil towards the principal. "You can discuss this with my brother." And without another word, he drags me out of the office.

 

There's a black BMW waiting in front of the school. Luka pulls the door open and throws me in the back then gets in behind me and slams the door shut, the cue for the driver to start the engine. Neither of us bother with seat belts.

 

"Y-you're leaving?" I ask quietly when the heavy silence eventually becomes unbearable, despite my best efforts to withstand the crushing atmosphere. Why is he leaving when he just got back? Is it because of what I did?

 

_"No,"_ I scold myself for being stupid, " _Not everything is about you. The fight only happened twenty minutes ago."_

 

"Luka?" I ask when he doesn't respond. Nothing. His anger is practically palpable. It makes me want to curl up into a ball and cry. Why did I have to be so stupid? "Luka, where are we going? Luka?"

 

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

 

"But-"

 

He takes me by surprise - my head slams against the window with a painful thunk, and, next thing I know, Luka is glaring daggers into my soul with one hand pressed against the glass and the other constricting my throat, pressing into the bruises from last night and cutting off the airway. "You had better pray that kid is okay," he growls, "Because you know what's going to happen to you if Senator Summers presses charges."

 

I struggle halfheartedly against his iron grip, but I know that this is my fault; I deserve this. "I'm sorry…" I choke out. It takes all my willpower to keep the tears from falling. The last thing I need is to start bawling in front of Luka. He hates it when I cry.

 

Seconds tick by, maybe even a few minutes. He stares into my eyes, searching… waiting. As if it's only a matter of time until tears spill over. I bite my lip and blink them back as best I can.

 

Luka huffs a breath, a mirthless smirk playing on his lips, probably because he knows how hard I'm trying not to cry. He lets up on my neck, and I move to sit up, but before I can straighten myself, he slams my head against the window again. This time, without him to hold me down, my head bounces off the window with a loud thud and I cry out in pain.

 

"Get out," he commands coldly while I'm still reeling from the impact. I didn't even realize the car had stopped.

 

The locks click open, and, blindly, I fumble with the latch, cradling the back of my head. Before I can open the door, someone is pulling it open from the outside. I crack one eye open and practically throw myself backwards into car to get away from the man.

 

It's a futile effort. Luka pushes me forward, and Gabe roughly grabs me by the arm, dragging me out into the cold. I twist in his grip, reaching out for Luka. "Please!" I beg, "I'm sorry!"

 

He doesn't spare me a second glance, leaning forward to instruct the driver, "Airport, please." Gabe slams the door shut for him, and the car seamlessly merges back into the traffic.

 

 Glancing back up at Gabe fearfully, I suddenly regret being so moody with him this morning. I regret all the times I ignored his calls and texts. I regret- "Please…" I don't even know what I'm asking, just that he doesn't hurt me.

 

"I don't want to hear it," Gabe says monotonously as he drags me into the building, the main office of Valenti International. He dumps me unceremoniously in the corner of the lobby, just outside one of the conference rooms. "Wait here until the board meeting is over." I nod mutely, and just when I think he's going to leave, he leans down and whispers, "I have something _very_ special for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I write porny stuff, I feel incredibly stupid. Hopefully reading it made you feel better than I did while writing it, perhaps even a little hot under the collar?
> 
> Also, I was rereading previous chapters to re-immerse myself in this world, when I came across a particular phrase a few chapters ago that absolutely mortified me >_<
> 
> The basic story is that I was writing the scene, but couldn't decide on the words I wanted to use, so I just put a funny filler there and was planning on replacing it later, except I totally forgot about it and now it's preserved in the annals of the internet! Whenever I think about that line, I simultaneously want to crack up laughing or crawl in a hole and shrivel away. I could change it, but I'm going to let it sit there as a reminder to myself that I need to be more careful when rereading. Skimming before posting a chapter just isn't going to cut it.


	10. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushed this one pretty badly, so it's probably worse than usual (if that's possible) But I honestly can't tell. They're all just words to me after reading it over so many times.

"Take off your shirt."

 

Gabe's sharp command resonates in the large room. Or, as I tend to think of it, the large torture chamber.

 

Furnished from top to bottom in crimson velvet, red mahogany, and saccharine satin, we're in the back of the Louis XIV, an exclusive brothel owned by the Valenti family. There's a four poster king bed along the back wall and both a wardrobe and dresser along the adjacent wall closer to the tightly locked door. Overall, it's terribly gaudy, but I grew up down the hall from here, so I'm pretty used to it. Once, I would have called it a happy childhood, but now I realize it was downright pathetic.

 

In the spacious area in front of the bed, there's a bear skin rug and footstool with golden tassels, and, to the side of that, in the part of the room near the dresser, there's an area padded by black mats, similar to ones found in a gym. That's where we are.

 

The entire brothel is located underneath Chicago's largest hotel. I've been told this room in particular is located underneath the laundry room, filled with industrial laundry machines, so no one can hear the screams from above. If that's not depressing, then the meat hook hanging from the ceiling and dresser filled with various whips and toys and the like definitely are. The wardrobe is new, but I can't say I'm interested in knowing what's inside.

 

I've been told that I'm quite the pessimist, but, honestly, as I throw my shirt to a crumpled heap on the ground and allow Gabe to cuff my hands in front of me, place a wooden stool underneath my feet and string me up to the meat hook so that I can stand on my tippy toes if I really stretch, there's not much to be optimistic about. Maybe I should be thankful he didn't let everyone in that conference room gangbang me, except for the part where I'd much prefer that sort of routine degradation to this - standing here precariously, in this room, on the verge of hyperventilating. Although not an entirely novel experience, it is, nonetheless, a terrifying one.

 

Deep breath in… Deep breath out. I learned everything I know about coping with fear, anxiety, and panic from TV, and I think it works about as well as if I'd learned it from an actual therapist, which is to say, not very well.

 

Gabe saunters over to the dresser, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the polished wood. He opens the top drawer on the left. The muscles of his back ripple underneath the black fabric of his shirt as he carefully picks up one of the objects inside and strokes it almost lovingly. He turns around and shows it to me, asking, "Remember this one?"

 

_Yes._

 

I swallow with some difficulty. It's a whip made out of black leather. Braided, maybe? I don't know much about whips, but I do know that I don't like them one bit. I remember the way Gabe handled it like an extension of his own arm, the way he wielded it like an artist wielding a paintbrush, drawing burning red lines over the canvas of my skin. I remember how I sobbed like a child afterward, and he shushed me with sweet nothings, stroked my hair soothingly and held me in his arms until I fell asleep, probably using his ability to make me docile, but if I can never tell, really, and thinking about it makes me doubt every interaction I have with him, makes me doubt my sanity even.

 

I grit my teeth determinedly. Not this time though. I won't fall for his trap this time. Although, that's what I said last time too.

 

Gabe's bare feet pad lightly on the mats, and my own flex against the stool, trying to gain some traction. "Count them," he says as he walks past me.

 

I nod, but then say quietly, "Yes, sir." Just to be safe.

 

He's eerily silent behind me. I don't know what he's doing, but each passing moment is giving me anxiety. _"Don't think about last time…"_ Or so I tell myself, but now that my mind is on the subject, I can't _stop_ thinking about last time. Just thinking about the pain makes me want to curl in on myself. The scabs didn't heal for at least a week; the scars, a month. I'll have to change out in the toilet stalls for the foreseeable future, if I don't get expelled.

 

The first strike catches me off guard.

 

It tears me out of my musings, cuts a path of fire across the middle of my back, and I choke back a cry, stumbling a precarious step forward, but manage to release most of the pain through a tense exhale. "One, thank you, sir," I spit out. Only nineteen more to go.

 

Before I even get a chance to take a breath, another strike hits me, harder and faster than the first. I cry out in both pain and panic as I loose my footing, reaching down desperately with my toes. It's a futile effort - they barely skirt over the glossy varnish of the wooden stool, and then I'm swinging hopelessly in midair. It feels like my shoulders are going to be pulled out of their sockets, so I pull myself up a little, but that only makes it more impossible to regain my footing.

 

"Gabriel!" I whine, turning my head to him for comfort, for support, for help. I don't know. All I end up managing to do is add another dimension to the swinging. "Gabriel!"

 

Damn him for looking so composed. I only catch a glimpse of his rolled up sleeves and relaxed stance, yet my mind easily fills in the smirk that looks so much like Luka's, the single lock of hair that's fallen into his eyes.

 

"What do you say?"

 

What do I- "Two thank you sir!"

 

With a sigh, Gabe comes forward and wraps an arm around my stomach. Cautiously, I let my weight hang from the chain, despite the protest from my shoulders, and let Gabe guide me back on top of the stool. "That's your only warning. Next time, we start over."

 

I feel like I should say thank you again, but I know I'll be doing it eighteen more times.

 

Eighteen.

 

Fuck.

 

Didn't I say something about how this time is going to be different than last time? Because it's going the exact same way so far. Well, last time I didn't have the arm strength to pull myself up… That's right. I was young and weak last time. This time I won't cry. This time I won't beg.

 

I hear Gabe wind up again, and brace myself for the impact. The third strike catches me across my lower back, but I grit my teeth and bite my tongue to stop myself from crying out. Clearly, he put his strength into this one. "T-three, thank you, sir," I say as evenly as I can manage.

 

Gabe huffs an amused laugh at my stubbornness, and we fall into a sort of rhythm. He draws back, then swings. The whip cracks, brands me with its leather tail. I choke down whatever undignified, strangled cry of agony that surges up inside me and teeter unsteadily on the stool.

 

By the tenth lash, I'm breathing heavily through a haze of red hot pain, blinking back tears. I can't tell if it's sweat or blood dripping down my back. Five more, and they're falling freely, but I refuse to give Gabe the satisfaction of hearing me cry. "S-sixt-teen… thank you… sir."

 

"Fifteen," corrects Gabe, sounding bored.

 

At first, I don't realize the implications, but when they dawn on me, my eyes widen. "No… no, no!" I twist around, hysteria setting in. I was so close! "Please, Gabriel! I'm sorry! Please don't-"

 

"Turn around."

 

"I'm sorry! Don't! Don't! Please!"

 

"Turn. Around."

 

When I continue to babble and plead, he strides forward and physically forces me to face the dresser again. I hear him step back, wind up, and then the whip cuts through the air. Another strike layered on top of the many previous ones, each one feeling exponentially more painful as time drags on.

 

"One, thank you, sir," Gabe reminds coolly.

 

"One, t-thank you-you, sir…" I hiccup.

 

As soon as the next strike hits me, I completely give up any sort of pride and start sobbing. "Two… Two thank you sir," I cry, and I can almost feel the satisfaction radiating from Gabe, knowing that he's won. Again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the punishment finally ends, Gabe takes me down and sets me on my stomach atop the king bed's red, satin sheets. They feel luxuriously cool and silky against my skin. I mumble incoherent thanks and pleas jumbled together while he hushes me softly, allowing my head to loll against his leg. I let him stroke my sweat matted bangs and run his fingers gently through the tangles in my hair, despite the way my back burns as if a bucket of hot coals were dumped on it.

 

He shouldn't get to do this! He can't come back and play the father figure, not after he… Not after the way he hurt me.  But I let him anyway. There's no denying how nice it feels, even if these are probably feelings he planted in my head with his ability.

 

Eventually, my eyes slip shut, at which point the bed dips, and his reassuring presence disappears. I force down the whine that threatens to escape me. I haven't sunk quite so low yet. He soon comes back and wipes down my sweaty skin with a soft cloth. It irritates the cuts, but feels good nonetheless.

 

Afterwards, Gabe bustles around the room, doing God knows what. It's not like he's cleaning up - there are people for that. I hear him slip out the door, then come back, then go out again. I find myself dozing off to his quiet pattering, only rousing when his footsteps approach the bed again.

 

A cap is being twisted off. It clinks against the bedside table when Gabe sets it down. He walks behind me, but I can't find it in myself to open my eyes. The first touch of his palms, sticky with something cool and slick, makes me hiss. Although I try to pull myself away, my arms feel about as strong as jello. Gabe coaxes me back down and proceeds to rub some sort of herbal smelling cream into my skin. It stings like hell, but after he finishes and goes back to doing whatever, I find the tension in my muscles evaporating.

 

By the time Gabe comes back and swaddles me in something warm and soft, picking me up like I weigh nothing, the burning in my back has lessened to the point where I can barely feel it. I feel like a baby being carried in his arms. I'm so exhausted that I don't even have the strength to protest being treated this way.

 

His strides are steady; his breathing, even. Like that, before we even exit the Louis XIV, I'm asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's dark outside when I wake up. I recognize the living room I'm in as Gabe's apartment. Everything is beige and boring, but probably ten times as expensive as the furniture in an average apartment.

 

As soon as I try to get up, my back screams in protest. Of course, Gabe, sitting not even five feet away, is at my side in a heartbeat. "Shh… Don't move," he says softly, resting a hand on my shoulder.

 

I slap it away with a growl, much less inclined to be docile now than I when I was high on hormones this afternoon. His ability only works with direct contact. As long as he's not touching me, I know my thoughts are my own.

 

Although Gabe's eyes narrow, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he sighs and walks off to the kitchen.

 

He makes me stay the night, as well as eat some chicken soup that tastes like shit because he can't cook, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.

 

After finishing the bland and somewhat bitter soup, I retreat to the bathroom where I take a long, hot shower. I try to keep the spray away from my back (without much luck). Although the cuts on my back sting under the water, at least I have time to think.

 

I hardly have to remind myself to hate Gabriel, despite his gentle treatment today. My right shoulder aches just thinking about how he betrayed the dumb, trusting, naïve, slut I used to be. He was my-

 

Angrily, I expose my back to the full brunt of the water, relishing in the distraction the stinging sensation brings me. I slam my fist against the wall.

 

If only I could forget…

 

When I finally get out, I towel myself dry and, for whatever reason, decide to wipe away the condensation from the full-length mirror. I stare into it and my reflection stares right back at me. I know, objectively speaking, that I'm a fit and attractive half-Caucasian male, but sometimes… sometimes it's really hard to see it.

 

Whatever.

 

I don't even bother examining the crisscrossing mess of whip marks on my back. With proper care, they'll scab by tomorrow, then scar in a couple weeks, then fade in a few months.

 

Shutting the lights off with a sigh, I return to the bedroom and crawl under the covers, as far away from Gabe as I can manage, which is actually a pretty decent distance considering the size of the bed. I try to lay as still as possible, but even the slightest movement pulls at the lashes on my back, and every time I'm on the verge of falling asleep I roll over and immediately jerk back awake with a painful start. Somehow, I manage to drift off into a fitful sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_It's dark._

 

_It's cold._

 

_I curl up tighter under the sheets - I'm scared._

 

 _The bed is so soft, I feel like I'm sinking in a white cloud, like I'm going to fall through and land on the ground far, far below with a_ splat _. But the scary man was angry when I slept on the floor, so I have to stay here._

 

_I miss my futon. I miss my brothers._

 

_I want to go home._

 

_A pair of strong arms reach out from the dark wrap around my waist, pulling me tightly against him, my back to his warm chest, drawing me under the soft glow of the bedside lamp._

 

_He presses a kiss to the top of my head, nuzzling the jet black locks lovingly. A hand, large enough to span the entirety of my chest, wanders underneath my shirt, his fingers drum lightly against my tummy, and I curl into myself with a squeal._

 

_"Kaede," he teases fondly, repeating the motion._

 

_A laugh escapes my lips, and he tickles me harder. I kick out even as I burst into peals of laughter, try to pull his hand away from my belly and struggle to draw in a full breath._

 

_"Stop!" I cry out between desperate breaths, wriggling around in his arms until I'm facing him, kicking futilely at his stomach. "Brother, please!"_

 

_He finally does stop, and before I can catch my breath, he presses his lips to mine. They're soft and taste a little bit like alcohol, though he's not drunk. He takes me by surprise, but I catch on quickly and clumsily try to imitate what he does, giggling when he licks my lower lip._

 

_"Open your mouth," he commands a little bit roughly, hot breath mingling with my own soft pants._

 

 _I obey unquestioningly, and he leans back in, eyes fluttering shut, so I do the same. It feels funny when he runs his tongue along the roof of my mouth, but kind of good too. He combs his fingers through my hair before grabbing a fistful and pressing me into the kiss. A shiver runs down my spine when he wraps his tongue around mine. He wedges a knee between my thighs, placing a bit of pressure against_ that _place, and it feels so good that I buck my hips down, eager for more of that amazing feeling._

 

_Even though I know I should be breathing through my nose, it's hard to get in a full breath when he keeps on stealing it away, and I pull away with a hand on his chest, gasping and panting. "B-brother…" I stutter nervously, flustered and unsure of myself._

 

_"Did you like that, Kaede?" he asks with a teasing smile._

 

_"I don't- I…"  Overwhelmed and terribly confused, I trail off, unable to meet his eyes. Of course I know what a kiss is, but I thought they were supposed to be between a boy and a girl. It feels wrong to do it with Brother. Yet I find myself nodding shyly anyways._

 

_His smile widens. He almost looks relieved. "Good boy," he croons, "You're my good, little boy, aren't you?"_

 

I'm his good boy.

 

_I nod eagerly, any doubts completely erased by his words._

 

_The rest of the night is passed with soft caresses and deep kisses, sickly sweet words of praise whispered in the dark, filling my chest with an eagerness to please. When, at last, Brother flips me around so my back is to his chest again and pulls me close so that my head is tucked underneath his chin, I feel giddy and lightheaded, safe in his embrace._

 

_"You must be tired," he says, drawing light patterns on my skin with his finger._

 

_My eyelids droop, and I suddenly realize how tired I am. In this room with four white walls and a single door to the outside, it's hard to tell how much time has passed. But right now it feels like we're the only two people in the world._

 

_I want to stay like this forever and ever._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I talked with your principal," says Gabe in the morning as he shakes me awake. "You'll be suspended for two weeks."

 

I mumble into the pillow and fall back asleep.

 

It's well into the afternoon when I wake up. Gabe rubbed more of that herbal ointment on my back before he left for work, and it seems to be healing nicely. The delicate new skin ripples unevenly over my back when I walk, and I know it'll be tender for a day or two. I honestly don't know what his thought process is, but I guess he doesn't want any lasting scars.

 

I don't suppose he could just not whip me in the first place.

 

There's a message on my phone telling me to be back at his apartment by eight, but I can't find it within myself to groan. I'm already battered and bruised, to not mention likely staying with Gabe until Luka, who is absolutely furious with me, comes back.

 

~~How much worse could things get?~~

 

On second thought, I don't want to know.

 

Gabe left clothes out for me, and it's kind of disturbing that he has clothes my size just laying around, but I choose not to think about it. He's a creep, and I'll leave it at that. Moreover, I don't have time to contemplate on Gabe's creepiness because I have to go to work. Theoretically, I could skip, but I'm already walking on thin ice as it is. Shirking my work is not conducive to getting back on Luka's good side. Besides, it'll be a good distraction.

 

It's not until _after_ I've hailed a taxi that I realize going to work means I'll see Mr. Kirk. Thinking about him makes me sick. I'm not afraid of him, but I should be, and that's what worries me. It's so easy to let down my guard when I'm around him, kind of like with Gabe, but at least I know Gabe's tricks.

 

As usual, the distance between Gabe's apartment and the branch office is too short for my liking. I give the cabbie a twenty and reluctantly hobble out of the taxi into the building, only straightening up as the elevator approaches the thirty-eighth floor. When the doors slide open, I stride out confidently, if a little slower than usual, ignoring the lingering pain in my back where the tender scabs rub against my shirt…

 

Fuck. I suddenly realize I'm wearing a white shirt. It'll show through if the fresh scabs open up and start bleeding. I need to change.

 

Mentally, I calculate the time it'll take to get upstairs and change. Unfortunately, before I can quickly abscond, Mr. Kirk spots me and waves me over.

 

As tempted as I am to simply ignore him, it's too late to pretend I didn't see him. With a sigh, I trudge over to his cubicle. Mr. Kirk glances around furtively, and I already know something I don't like is going to happen.

 

"I have something of yours that you might be interested in."

 

 _"My knife."_   I groan inwardly. My hand immediately moves to touch the side of my jeans where I normally keep it, but I already know I won't find it. It's been gone since yesterday, when I accidentally left it on the floor outside the cafeteria like an idiot.

 

Mr. Kirk pulls it out of his own pocket, turning it back and forth in his hand. "A balisong, or butterfly knife. It's rather nice," he smirks clumsily, and damn him for being bad at smirking. I bet Jesus and Mother Teresa are the only other people who have ever been bad at it. "Where'd you get it?"

 

 "It was a gift," I grit out, holding out my hand. "Will you please give it back?"

 

Instinctively, he withdraws it, as if I'm about to snatch it from him, which is a tempting idea. "Ah-ah," he tuts, "Only if you agree to help my investigation."

 

I scoff. "For a knife?"

 

"For a piece of evidence."

 

"…"

 

Mr. Kirk steps forward, emboldened by my silence. "That's right. It's not as flashy as the machetes, but I can think of one body in particular that has knife wounds to match this."

 

"Save it," I sneer more confidently than I feel, "I've never stabbed anyone with that knife." Only partially a lie. "And I know you can't match a stab wound to the exact knife." It is possible, however, to narrow down the candidates.

 

Mr Kirk shrugs. "Maybe not normally, but we have a specialist."

 

Read: We have a special carrier. I can't tell if he's bluffing or not. Fuck. I know I only recently resolved to be more positive, but can you fault me for thinking my life is just one shitstorm after the other?

 

At that moment, the elevator dings and Matt stumbles out. "Dad! Dad!" he shouts excitedly, running over.

 

I shut my eyes and sigh, imagining his cheerful grin. As annoying as he might be, his interruption is nonetheless welcome. Taking the opportunity to step back, I excuse myself politely so that I can regroup my thoughts. "Sorry, Mr. Kirk," I say tersely, "but-"

 

Looking back, I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but I'm pretty sure Matt trips over his feet because the next thing I know, he's barreling into my back, pressing painfully into my cuts, dragging his little hands all over every welt on my back as he tries to regain his balance. Burning knives stab at my back, and I curse excessively loudly before I can stop myself, curling in on myself over the desk, squeezing my eyes shut, and clenching my fists until they turn white.

 

Mr. Kirk leans down in concern. His voice comes from far away, drowned out by white noise buzzing in my ears. "Are you okay, Kyle?"

 

"Crap, sorry," babbles Matt, rubbing me on the back. I suck in a sharp breath and bite back a groan of pain. For whatever reason, he think that's a good idea even as I weakly bat his hands away.

 

Fuck. It hurts. Fuck. I need to stand up. Fuck.

 

Matt only frets more, "I'm so sorry, Kyle. Really, really-" He abruptly shuts up.

 

_Thank the gods._

 

Or so I think until he opens his mouth again and nearly shrieks, piercing through the haze in my mind, "Is that blood?!"

 

My eyes snap open. Matt must have opened up the fresh scabs again with all his groping. I can only imagine what Mr. Kirk will think if he finds out about my back. He'd probably become more convinced that I need 'help'. And I don't think I can stand more of his fatherliness.

 

Throwing all caution to the wind, I stand quickly and make a beeline for the restroom, completely ignoring how the scabs stretch and pull with each step. Mr. Kirk seems to be at a loss, unsure of what's going on, though at least realizing I need some space, while Matt, on the other hand, gives chase.

 

"Where are you going?" he asks.

 

To which I respond, "The restroom," in what I hope is a voice that conveys how unwelcome his presence is.

 

"Why?" he immediately asks.

 

Some people just can't get a hint. As quickly as I'm going, Matt manages to keep up with his long, gangly strides. I exhale audibly in relief when I round the corner to the bathroom. Practically barreling past the door, then spinning around to face Matt, I finally answer, "To wash off your germs."

 

I slam the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were confused, 'Kaede' in the flashback is Kyle's real name. If you remember, he mentioned Kyle isn't his real name in the first chapter. Also, 'Brother' is Gabriel, although they're not really brothers. It's a little weird, but there's an explanation. 
> 
> I'll be taking some time off from writing due to personal reasons, but I hope to be back soon!


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